


Hallows on High Heart

by Ladeeknight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Day of the Dead, Halloween, Rituals, Speaking with Dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-08-09 18:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16455065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladeeknight/pseuds/Ladeeknight
Summary: This is a post battle of the Blackwater au. Sandor has removed Sansa from Kings Landing. They are traveling North on a windswept autumn night and decide to camp at the foot of a hill crowned in Weirwood stumps.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is loosely book cannon. I know that it does not actually line up perfectly with the book, but I wanted have some Halloween fun with SoIaF cast so here's my take on the situation. I'm thinking of making a couple of other holiday "specials" if this one goes over well. As always, I look forward to hearing what you think.

Sandor was pulled from sleep roughly by the neck. If he had to guess by texture and the way it bit into his throat he'd say it was a bowstring cutting off his windpipe. Sandor allowed himself to be hauled away from the warmth that had pooled between Sansa's bedroll and his. He was immensely relieved to see by the rise and fall of her teats beneath the blanket that her eyes were only closed in sleep. _These bloody buggering bastards were quiet if nothing else_ , he growled inwardly as  San complied silently with the backward tug into an awkward crab crawl. He wanted their visitors to be fully occupied with him before he woke the Little Bird and urged her to take flight. His hand burrowed deep in his right boot as Bowstring dragged him across his pair of battle stained but serviceable foot-gear. There was a sharp tug at his neck, "uh-uh," whispered a lilting voice in his ear. "Lem, check his hand careful."

A tall man in light-colored cloak knelt to check Sandor's hand and found himself with a dagger at his throat. It was the dagger that Sandor kept under Stranger's saddle blanket that at night served he and Sansa as a pillow. The knife was being wielded by a wild-haired Northern Princess irate from having her beauty rest disturbed, by the look of her. If the bowstring hadn't already been catching his breath, Sandor might have made a fucking fool of himself by gasping out loud. Since leaving King's Landing Sansa continued to surprise him almost daily with her resourcefulness and readiness to learn about living on the road and getting her hands dirty. Just now her Tully blues were narrowed and glinting a willingness to spill blood. Sandor wished it was the first time he's seen that look, but at the same time he was glad her kill face was so deranged. She was holding the dagger all wrong, but the threat in her eyes would have made him lay down his weapons. He would just have to  correct her grip at his first chance, if they lived.

"Unhand him and step away from us, or I will open your friend's throat." Her usually sweet voice was rough from sleep and so gave a good impersonation of a snarl.

"Ach, but he's no friend of mine," Bowstring said from somewhere above and behind Sandor. "Not all who travel together are friends. Mostly we were checking to make sure this big fella was actually a friend of yours. If you'd like to make a change in travel companions lass, now's the time. You do know you travel with the Hound, a vile Lannister dog, right?." For a split second, the blood in Sandor's veins froze. He'd gotten her out of Kings Landing, but that might not outweigh the other things he'd done. He wouldn't blame her if she entertained ideas about switching horses. _She might even be better off,_ he thought.

A ragged laugh crawled out of Sansa's throat that surprised even Sandor with its sharp dark edges. "I know I travel with the only man who saved me from the Lannisters and I don't know you at all, so let him go and step back or I will kill this man."

"Do ya know me lassie?" a third man materialized out of the trees, speaking softly with the same burr that all the all the North men he'd ever met had. The same lilt only slightly lifted some notes of the Little Bird's chirping as if someone had tried to train it out of her, but didn't quite get it all. The man who had come out of the trees held up hands empty of weapons. He approached from an angle that meant Sansa would have to take her eyes off of Bowstring to see him by the dim light the coals of their fire had died down to.

  "Your voice speaks you as a Northman, but I can't see to say if I know you. But even if I could, I saw no Northman in Kings Landing offering to take me home. So I don't care who you are. If you don't unhand my companion I will kill yours. I tire of repeating myself. Don't make me do it again." The steel in her voice toward the end was unmistakable and reminded him uncomfortably of Cersei. The outlaws must have heard it too because suddenly Sandor could breath freely again. He was instantly on his feet again and moving to give Bowstring a broken rib, when Sansa's voice cracked again, "No! Arm yourself and attend me. We do not know how many they are." It was not his first order from a slip of a girl who did not know more about ambushes than he did. He told himself he obeyed because his hand did feel empty without his sword in it. "Northman, put a log on the fire," Sansa directed. Dread again filled Sandor. Fear that she hadn't actually thrown in with him clenched his guts. _Maybe she was just hedging her bets. Well, she's learning at least,_ he thought dejectedly.

The third man did as he was bid. The fire flared up to reveal a very average looking Northman dark, of eye and hair. The little bird gasped, "I know you for one of my father's men. I apologize, for your name escapes me."

Relief relaxed the anxious features of the man, outlined by the firelight. "My name's Harwin m'lady. I can take ya to yer sister."

Only his quick reflexes saved Sansa from hitting the ground as Sandor encircled her waist with his free arm. He brandished his sword at the outlaws menacingly as well as he was able with a lady on his arm. Harwin started forward seemingly uncaring of Sandor's sword or mood until the Hound gave him a less than gentle jab with the tip of his sword. Not enough to go through the Northman's boiled leather jerkin, but enough to make a point. "She knows you; I don't." Harwin halted and backed up, though concern for Sansa was writ plainly on his face. "We'll talk when she comes around. For now, I want you all to back the fuck off and think about how you want to bring the younger..." Sandor hesitated as he did not want to name drop in front of strangers, though he did want to be clear, "wolf here. If you think we are following you into a camp of your friends I've got a keep in the Riverlands you can have with a pretty view of the sea."

"We'll back off for a bit," the big man in the light-colored cloak said in a low, threatening voice. He rubbed his throat, where Sansa had put steel to it. "But know that we've got eyes and a bow on you." Lem, as Bowstring had called him, pointed to a tall pine about twenty feet from the bedrolls. It was dark but the branches rustled in way that Sandor could not mistake for woodland creatures. "So don't try anything."

Sandor bared his teeth at the other big man, "We've been traveling together for nigh on three weeks. Whatever damage you think has been done, has been. And none of it is any business of yours. Get the fuck out of my camp before I run you through. I'll use your body for a shield and kill all three of you before that archer gets me, see if I don't."

"Come along Lem," Bowstring urged. "I don't like to see the Lady dangling like a rag doll and he's not like to put her down until he doesn't feel so threatened."

Sandor threw daggers at the men with his eyes until they faded into the dark.  Once he could no longer see them he lay Sansa gently upon her bedroll. "Sansa," he coaxed slapping her cheeks lightly. When that did not wake her, he tucked a fiery lock behind one of her delicately swirled ears. "Little Bird," his harsh voice sounded unusually tender rasping low in the firelight as he whispered urgently in her. 

The arm still draped over his shoulder twitched suddenly at the same time that Sansa's eyes popped open, and she whisper-yelled "Boo!" Sandor startled so badly that he fell out of his crouch and sprawled on his ass on the leaf-strewn ground. An angry growl vibrated from his throat, but it died as Sansa lay laughing quietly from her bedroll. Sandor was sure he looked like an idiot, but he gave zero fucks as long as he could hear that laugh. Before their escape, Sandor hadn't heard Sansa's laughter since the procession South. Now he heard it most days he even halfway tried to make it happen. And always when she did something she thought was clever, like putting a frog in his pack. He would never have guessed Sansa Stark for a practical joker until he saw her in the wild.

Still, Sandor felt he needed to make some show of disapproval, something to maintain his Houndly image. "Dammit girl, this is serious. Those cocksuckers almost had us," he groused moving to put his back to the oak their bedrolls were spread out beneath. 

"You should have seen your face," she said smothering a giggle. "And don't you go growling and cursing at me. I pretended to faint to buy us some time to talk. It's not my fault that you believed my poor acting. You played it perfectly by the way. I was afraid I would hit my head against a rock or root. I should have known you'd never let any harm come to me. You did promise." Sansa showed no sign of moving from her prone position. She simply beamed up at him, thrilled. "They have Arya." 

Sandor could think of many reasons why that was not a good thing, but he kept his trap shut. He had another concern that needed to be addressed, though. "They say they have your sister. How do we know they are not luring us into a trap?"

Sansa took a deep breath that drew Sandor's eye her pert teats under, but just barely, her sleep-mussed clothing. "I don't know," she mused. "In all your many years as a personal guard, haven't you come across a situation like this?"

Sandor grunted his amusement at the question. "No, much as I hate to say it, considering the cunts I've guarded. I'm a pretty damn good guard dog so my charges don't disappear into the forest that often, or need to be ransomed ever."

They were silent long moments considering the problem at hand. Then the silence of the night was rent asunder by a howl. It was coming from the steep hill that Sandor had eschewed as a campsite because he sensed a power emanating from there that he didn't understand and therefore didn't trust. The howl was high and thin with a wailing quality at the end. _That was made by no animal,_ he thought as Sansa sat upright beside him. "It's her. That's Arya."

She made as if to climb to her feet. Sandor caught her wrist so that he wouldn't end up chasing her out into the night. Sansa over balanced and fell into his lap. "You can be sure by a wail in the night?" he asked roughly trying to mask that her soft round backside pressed against his straight hardening front side was having the natural affect on him.

"Some things you just know," she said softly, all trace of giddiness gone and her features lovely in their seriousness. Her face was so close Sandor could feel her breath that has sped up a little, ruffle his lashes. It reminded him of the other time her face had been very close to his, and she'd even touched the burnt side. Where before it had angered him that she wouldn't look at him he now found her direct gaze all too unsettling. 

"As you say, Little Bird, but how will we get her back?"

"Come up the hill and we'll talk," answered a rich cultured voice that was not Sansa's. Out of the darkness lurched a one-eyed man with a halo of ginger curls. He looked to be the veteran of a thousand battles.

Sansa turned to look at him and Sandor actually heard her mouth drop open with a little plop. "You cannot be him. You are why Harwin is here. I never even thought to ask."

"Truly, my Lady, I am so changed from the man your father commanded to slay the Mountain, that I am surprised you recognized me," the man now had all Sandor's attention despite the fact that Sansa was still seated in his lap. The Hound had respected Ned Stark's decision to send someone after his brother. It was the first smart choice that Sandor had seen the Hand make. He'd thought Ned's choice of man was shit, but here that man stood looking like three leagues of war-torn road, but he still stood.

"But then why are you here? What do you with Arya?" Sansa asked. Whoever this man was, Sansa deemed him important enough to use her court voice on even if she was still currently using him for her throne.

"These and many more questions can be answered at our camp on the hill. Though I would ask you a question before we proceed. I see by your choice of seats that you do not seem to be afraid of your companion. Indeed my men say you threatened them in order to secure his safety and remain with him. Now that you know that an honorable man heads this band of outlaws, are you sure that you will not join us?"

Sandor could almost feel the steel shoot down the Little Bird's back at Dondarrion's words, as she sat up straighter. He assumed she was taking offense at being called out for their less than honorable proximity. Ever since he had nearly lost all control on the night the Blackwater burned, Sandor had tried to maintain strict boundaries between himself and Sansa, though she tended to be a cuddler as the nights grew colder.

"I have had my fill of 'honorable men' in Kings Landing. I will stay with the man who has proven himself trustworthy by his deeds. If you are to be trusted, you will bring my sister to me and let us be on our way." Sandor did not think it was possible for a man who looked as rough and sad sack as the man before him did to then become more so, but Beric did it. "Alas my Lady I cannot do that."

"Why not?" her voice was impervious steel, but Sandor could feel her body shaking. Her face must have also shown her dread, for Dondarrion rushed to assuage her fear. "Do not look so downcast my lady. Your sister is fine and in good health as her impersonation of your sigil suggested. You may see her of course, but we have need of her ransom to lend aid to the smallfolk this war is terrorizing." 

Sansa came to her feet in one fluid movement as if she lifted by an invisible thread pulled through the top of her head. Even in a dangerous time like this, Sandor could not help but mark her graceful movement. He followed her up in a powerful demonstration of his own physicality. "Ransom!? You claim to be an honorable man and yet you seek to sell my sister. Tell me that you are at least not selling her to my recent captors. I have many scars upon my person to prove their gentle nature."

Sandor could not altogether suppress the growl that ripped up his throat. He had not seen the scars that Sansa spoke of, but after seeing Trant beat her bloody with the flat of his sword he'd suspected they were there. He inwardly berated himself for not rescuing her sooner as he stepped up to block Sansa from the view of the archer. A vague plan of cutting off the head of the snake was forming in his mind. He might even be able to use the one-eyed man's body as a shield against the archer for long enough to pull him out of that tree. His contemplation was interrupted as the Dondarrion began to speak.

"Nay my lady. You misunderstand me. Though I could probably get more from the Queen, I would never allow your sister to be ransomed by a Lannister. We seek instead to deal with your mother and brother." From his new vantage point, Sandor let his eyes slide to the side to see a myriad of emotions ripple across Sansa's face, not the least of which was shame. His chest throbbed as he thought he could guess why. That conniving cunt Cersei had laid and baited a trap that had been irresistible for one as ill-prepared for court life as Sansa had been. On more than one occasion Sandor had thought about inviting Eddard Stark the high and mighty Hand of the King out to the training yard and beating the shit out of him for being the biggest mother fucking fool Sandor had ever laid eyes on. Couldn't that idiot see what a monstrous cunt Sandor had to guard? Truth be told Sandor as much shielded the world from Joff as the other way round. But all Eddard Stark could see was the idea of sharing grandchildren with his friend and king. And here we all stand because of it, Sandor thought bitterly.

Several long, ugly moments passed as Sansa tried to master her emotions. "You know where they are?" She asked quietly. Sandor refrained from wincing, but just barely, He regretted that Sansa revealed their lack of knowledge. But he was not surprised that a 16-year-old girl, even a survivor of the Lion's Den, would succumb to the chance to ask about her family.

"Not yet. One of my companions will speak to the Keeper of the Hill when the moon reaches it's zenith, tonight, which is not long off. He will also consult the flames to guide us." This all sounded like a load of horse shit to Sandor, but he could see the Little Bird nodding.

"How can I trust that if we follow you to your camp that you will not overpower my protector and thereby gain another prize to sell?"

Beric's face became sadder still. "My Lady, it shames me beyond words that I must put my hand out to your lady mother and demand a reward for what is justly my duty. I only do it because I have seen what ravages this war has wrought upon people powerless in this struggle. Surely you have seen it yourself, on the road."

"I have," Sansa confessed sadly. Sandor was sure she was remembering the day they lost to helping a woman bury a child who had starved to death. "I believe I understand your motivations all too well. That does not give me a lot of hope that you will not turn on me and mine." _She has come so far,_ Sandor thought to himself with pride.

 


	2. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor find more than they bargained for on High Heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was intended to be part of chapter 1 but I just ran out of time yesterday. I know it's short, but think of it as more of a continuation of the first chapter than it's own thing.

Sansa's eyes scanned the clearing at the top of the hill for Arya in vain. Sandor walked stiffly beside her radiating anger. He had done so the whole ride up the steep hill, and so she knew without being told that her escort disapproved strongly of her decision to accept Dondarrion's word of honor that she would not join Arya as chattel to be ransomed. _Just one more stupid move from a silly little bird,_ she chided herself. But she knew her sister was up there and so had to trust in Sandor's abilities to keep them both safe.

A fearful cry from across the clearing brought Sansa's attention to a fire pit at the apex of the hill. A twisted old dwarf was backing fearfully away from a scruffy urchin. The old woman, for when the smaller of the figures turned to hobble away at her best speed, the bounce and sway under her threadbare garments made Sansa fairly certain that the small person barreling right at her was female. Sandor put an arm around Sansa's waist and tried to pull her away, but he was not fast enough. Sansa and the twisted old woman collided and went down in a heap. "Old gods have mercy, it's the other one," the old woman screeched trying to disentangle herself from Sansa. "My Hill is under attack by wolves, both bright and dark, living and dead. Leave me in peace."

Sansa reached out to sooth the other woman. "Madam please, I mean you know harm. How is it that you know that I'm a wolf? Where have you seen the Dark Wolf?" _For surely that must be Arya,_ Sansa thought.

The woman slapped at Sansa's hand. "You never mean harm, but you do harm. Guilt chains your wolf so that she cannot even move."

"Now see here, you dried up old cu-" Sandor began.

"Sandor!" Sansa exclaimed. She turned back to the old woman. "You must have mistaken me for someone else. My wolf is dead." A deep chasm of sorrow opened up in Sansa. "I feel the loss of Lady, my wolf, keenly."

"If only the Lady in you had truly been killed that day, you would have been able to act as a wolf on your proving day, instead of a stupid little bird," Sansa and Sandor both drew away from the woman in horror for different and similar reasons. Sansa was stung by her words, but the last three were spoken in a perfect rendition of Sandor's damaged voice.

Sansa climbed to her feet, ignoring Sandor's outstretched hand, with all the noble indignation that she could subconsciously muster. Her upper lip was pulled back in a snarl she had no awareness of, but her next words were cut off by an anguished cry as a small blur of fury hit Sandor unawares in the back of the knees surprising him down in a clanking heap, nearly on top of the old dwarf woman who had not followed Sansa up. Sandor gave a roar of anger and brought his mailed fist down nearly upon his attacker who barely scrambled out of the way. In the dimness, Sansa thought it was the urchin the old woman had been fleeing from as the scamp swarmed up Sandor's prone figure and went for his eyes. The shadowy figure was screeching something that tickled deep in Sansa memory, trapped under many layers of horror and regret. She was frozen in terrified shock as Sandor's fist came up now filled with his boot dagger. Just as Sandor was about to sink eight inches of steel into her little sister, a hand caught his wrist and held the Hound at bay. Sansa found herself locking eyes with another blue gaze, but very different than her own. "Grab her before one of them kills the other."

Though there was no mistaking the Kings Landing slum riming his words, Sansa was spurred into action by them. She caught Arya around the middle and yanked with all her might. The girl was much heavier than she looked, but Sansa managed to shift Arya's weight enough so that Sandor could sit up. His first order of business was to take a swing at the young man holding his arm. A gauntleted fist connected with a square stubbled jaw and the dark-haired young man staggered back. That caused Arya to shriek incoherently and lunge hard enough to break Sansa's hold on her. This time Sandor saw the urchin coming and so put his hand out to her badly shorn forehead, stopping her well out her ability to connect with him. The blue-eyed young man started forward, and Sandor halted him with a look. "I'm not gonna hurt your she-wolf boy, but I'm not gonna let her chew my ankles either."

"Round and around you will go

in a dance of guilt and woe.

No peace or joy will you know

until your dead you let go."

The chant of the twisted old woman settled over their tableau and Sansa was reminded that they were not alone. The outlaws watched the interchange between Arya and the Hound avidly, some with bows drawn. "Arya," Sansa said urgently. "We need to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you if you are with him," her sister responded petulantly.

"Please, Arya he is the only one who helped me," Sansa begged, hating the whine creeping into her voice.

Arya and a couple of others began a litany of crimes, and the Hound had an answer for each, though Sansa lost count. The eerie chant of the old dwarf woman had snared something deep inside Sansa. Something wounded. Something she would gladly gnaw off if given half a chance. Sansa approached the dwarf woman carefully not wanting to spook her. "How do you let the dead go?"

The wizened old woman looked up at Sansa her head cocked to one side so that her extremely long white hair brushed the yellowing grass on that side. "So you know you are bleeding from a soul wound." It was not a question. "You clasp your guilt too hard. You need to speak with your dead. To apologize? To confess? To purge."

"But no one can do that. Dead is gone."

"Look at you, knowing all the secrets of the here and beyond. And still a maiden. Your mother must be so proud." The old woman's voice dripped sarcasm with a thickness Sansa had never yet heard. She lowered her eyes, copper lashes dusting her shame warm cheeks. "A silent apology," the age-ravaged voice commented more gently. "Maybe your mother did a better job than I thought." A tear slipped from beneath Sansa's lashes. The ragged old voice came even more gently. "The dead are not always gone. Especially not if the living are holding them too tightly. If you would speak with him, it will mean a sacrifice."

Sansa's eyes sprang open, and she leaned toward the other woman eagerly. "I'll do anything," she said urgently.

A raspy cackle abraded Sansa's ears. "The words of a girl may create the woman." The crone cocked her head to the other side as if becoming aware again of the outside world.

Sansa was startled by the sudden uproar. Words like, "kill the Lannister dog," and "string 'im up" were being thrown around and Sansa was dismayed that she had not taken note of the way things were escalating. She should have been defending Sandor as he was always defending her.

"...trial by combat," Beric Dondarrion's rich resonate voice was pronouncing.

"Not on my Hill," snapped the dwarf woman. "If you all want to act like little boys playing monsters and maidens you can do it on your own time on your own ground. Tomorrow is High Hallow's Feast. We will have a Speaking." A hushed, possibly awed silence fell upon the crown of the hill. It was clear that some of those that were gathered knew what this meant, while others, like Sansa, did not. "I need all the Choices whole and able to perform, so there will be no brawls tonight. She," the woman indicated Sansa, "will be the Maiden, and so her companion is under my protection as well."

The man who had tried strangle Sandor whispered in Beric's ear. A frown appeared between the empty socket and the full one. "I don-"

"And I don't give a squirrel's fart what you have to say. This is women's business and if you ever want my help again you'll keep your opinions to yourself. She does this freely for the betterment of herself and I'll have no men interfering for the betterment of themselves." Here the tiny woman paused. No one argued with her. "Return tomorrow at high noon for the choosing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to post a brief warning: this story is starting out kind of medium roast, but it's going to get dark and weird. I hope those among you that are interested in that will continue to follow. If that's not really your thing I will mark the passages and post a summary in the end notes. That probably won't be for a couple of more chapters. I had hoped to be done by Hallween, but kids costumes never go quite as planned. :)


	3. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title pretty much says it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am hoping this chapter emphasizes the rich tradition behind this ritual while hinting at it's darker nature.

Sansa awoke the next morning alone on a straw mattress in the grayness of predawn. She hadn't woken alone in a long while, and she stretched loudly in that luxury. Last night the cottage that she was offered board in had only been lit by firelight, and so as the old woman had explained the ritual that would allow her to speak with her father, Sansa imagined that she was in a cave. The tidings had matched a deep rough place where old things had power. Looking around her now, Sansa saw that the woman's home was cluttered but clean. The thatch was not very far from from the wooden floor. Sansa suspected that she might just be able to walk freely without her hair getting tangled in the ceiling. Sandor would have to crouch for sure. The bed Sansa lay curled up in was tucked in the corner farthest from the door, but nearest the hearth. Everywhere there were roughly hewn shelves packed with everything from books, to animal skeletons. 

 

Sansa moved to the window by the door and peered out. In the shadows before dawn, she could see the recumbent form of Sandor Clegane. He slept huddled in his stained white cloak across the threshold of the cottage door. A smile curved Sansa's lips. It widened when she saw Arya curled up some distance away on the closest white stump. It was too far for Sansa to make out her sister's features, but she would have bet the last bit of jewelry she'd smuggled out of Kings Landing that Arya wore the peaceful expression of deep slumber. The younger Stark was being too still to be anything but asleep if her big sister still knew anything about her.

 

"You're up now. Good." The voice did not startle Sansa as she assumed the old woman be about somewhere in her own cottage.

 

Sansa turned to face the voice, "I am."

 

"Quick then come eat some bread before the sun tops the horizon, for after that you'll be fasting until the Choice is made."

 

Sansa walked to hearth without comment and took a roll from a covered wooden bowl. Since escaping Kings Landing, she had seldom been told what to do and she preferred it that way. Sansa did not like the old woman's tone or many of the things she'd said the night before about the coming ritual, but Sansa needed to speak to her father. She needed to tell him she was sorry. She hoped he would forgive her. What was a bit of blood against that?

 

"Once you have eaten, head to the stream to purify yourself. Your body must have passed through running water within a day of donning the Maiden's robes."

 

"May I take Arya with me?"

 

The woman scowled at the mention of her sister. "If you wish. But you may talk to no man after sunrise before the ceremony." That gave Sansa some pause. She had been happy to awaken alone, the peace of the morning unbroken by snores, but the prospect of going for any length of time without speaking with Sandor dismayed her. That was more than mere troubling. The last time she had felt that way about anyone was Joffery and the thought of developing a dependency on anyone was revolting to her, but she still she felt that tug.

 

"May I speak to him before dawn as with the bread?" Sansa asked.

 

"Make it quick." was all the tiny old woman said.

 

Sansa unlatched the door. Before she had it all the way open Sandor was on his feet. His irritated someone tried to kill me three times in the middle of the night face made Sansa smile. "I don't have long," she said without preamble. " I am not to speak with men before the choosing. I will need to go bath in the stream before the ceremony. I am taking Arya so you can come but you have to stay out of sight. I don't want to have to separate you two." He opened his mouth and Sansa cut him off. "I don't care that she started it. She says the same about you killing the butcher's boy and I cannot deal with that today. I need you to be more mature than a 14-year-old girl. Can you be?" He nodded. She smiled at him. "Thank you...." She thought about saying more, but decided they could fight about the ceremony later.

 

"Are you done giving me orders, your Grace?" He grated mockingly.

 

Sansa pretended to think about it, and then said, "Yes."

 

"Good. Now tell me about this ceremony."

 

"I'd rather not right now."

 

"I can't protect you if I don't know what the fuck is going on."

 

"You will be present, and you will know more as time goes on."

 

Sandor inhaled deeply through his nose. "I know you are keeping something from me."

 

"Oh look the sun is up," Sansa said before shutting the door firmly in his face. The sun was not, in fact, up yet, but she couldn't continue the discussion with Sandor for much longer without confessing everything. 

 

The old woman's chuckles welcomed her back into the cottage. "He's the warrior." It was not a question. 

 

"Yes. Sansa said. "I don't see why I only get to choose one and you get to Choose three."

 

"I only really get to choose two. The Stranger is always the same." At that Sansa furrowed her brow. "You'll see soon enough," the old woman promised with a wicked twinkle in her eye.

 

"But that is still twice as many as I get," Sansa said, hoping to open negotiations. Her mother had taught her all a good wife needed to know, and negotiating for the household was high on that list.

 

"Don't fret like a child. You make the final Choice. Don't act like your mind is not already made up." If Sansa didn't know any better she'd say the old woman was teasing her. Blood rushed to Sansa's face. "I vowed to keep an open mind."

 

"Heh," was all the reply Sansa got. She finished her roll and got one for Arya.

 

When Sansa opened the door a second time Sandor was nowhere to be seen. She pushed away the feeling that was somewhere between pain and anxiety and headed for the stump her sister was snoozing on.

 

As Sansa approached, she became aware that the young man from last night was awake and watching her closely. He stood when she was about ten feet away and closed the distance between them. A grotesque motley of red, purple and black exploded from the place on his jaw where Sandor had struck him. Sansa felt a pang of sympathy for the blue-eyed man. She knew what it felt like to take a blow in the face from a gauntlet. Not Sandor's gauntlet, never, but still she knew it hurt. Sansa smiled at him as he approached. "She didn't sleep for a long time after you left," he said more than a little implication in his voice. 

 

"Good morning to you, as well." She said with her coldest courtesy.

 

Sansa could not be sure because of the bruise, but she thought she saw his face darken. "That's right; I haven't got fancy manners. Don't need 'em where I grew up. Yer sister's sleepin' and she doesn't need to be awake and angry."

 

Sansa longed to share some of Sandor's more colorful suggestions with this boy, but she recognized in him something of Sandor. She was forced to admit that he likely knew the young woman, for there was no mistaking Arya for a boy or girl in the predawn light, that her sister had become during their time apart. And so Sansa drew her courtesy around her like armor for the soul. "Thank you ever so much for guarding her sleep, even from me. I do hope to reestablish a relationship with her. When she wakes, will you please give her this," Sansa handed him the roll as if it were a boon, "and tell her that the pack survives. I will be at the river, bathing, for a while, but after she may seek me in the cottage." Then conscious of the sun beginning to peak over the horizon she turned from him without waiting for a response.

 

Sansa followed the sound of water playing over rocks. She looked around but saw no sign of Sandor, thought the foliage was dense around the water's edge. Locating a natural pool created by a rock spill, Sansa quickly disrobed and submerged herself in the water. It was chilly, so she bathed quickly using the strangely spiced soap the old woman had given her. She used it on her hair as well though she was loath to get the great mass of auburn locks wet. At least there would be a fire to dry it by, Sansa reminded herself. Hair rinsed, Sansa turned back toward the bank and found that a soft wool towel folded on top of her clothes. She covered up with it swiftly thinking whoever had left it might be watching her even now. Sansa knew what it was to be stared at and ogled, but she had not felt spied upon while she was bathing. Still, she dressed quickly pulling her underthings on beneath the towel and putting her dress on over it. Then she wrapped her hair up in the towel and hastened back to the old woman's cottage.

 

Sansa intended to ask the old woman who might have left the towel for her, but the moment she stepped through the door the old woman bombarded her with preparations for the choosing and the rite to follow. There were not many words for Sansa to learn, but the ones she did made her blush. The woman also set out bottles of oil for anointing. More blushes. But there was a particular order, first a green jar of ointment that with a tingling minty smell. Next came a brown bottle with oil that smelled woodsy and musky. Last, a clear vial contained a balm with a sharp and bright scent. It reminded Sansa of lemons and she liked it. 

 

All of this was imparted to her as Sansa dried and brushed her hair. Sandor had come with her pack while she was bathing, so Sansa had her own implements to work with. The woman instructed her in a complicated braid of many more than three strands. As Sansa worked her fingers through her hair, the old woman murmured words and phrases tucking flowers and herbs dried and fresh in and among her tresses. There were times when the braid became so complicated that Sansa's fingers could not comply with what was being asked of them. In these places the woman would fasten hair pins carved from wood to which were bound with grass and vines all sorts of natural trinkets, from crystals and amber to acorns and colorful but dead bugs. Most spectacular among these was a huge purple dragonfly that which the old woman pinned in the braids at Sansa's right temple. At her left was a pale moon moth. About the time Sansa feared she could hold her arms up no longer the old woman told her they were through. Sansa objected saying she had only braided about half her hair and most of those braids were not tied off properly, they would surely come undone. The old woman smiled and explained that that was the way of things, to come undone. "This ceremony is about loosening your hold on the past. Do not be fearful of what is lost. If it is important, it will come back again."

 

"But how can that be?" Sansa queried close to tears. "I have lost so much and so many that are dear to me."

 

"My dear, so young." the old woman soothed in her cracked and brittle voice. "You have no idea what is dear, yet. What is truly to be feared." The old woman stared hard and long at her. "But you will."

 

Sansa thought of Lady and her father and privately disagreed with the old woman, but decided that further argument was useless.

 

Once her hair was complete the woman opened a chest smelling of cedar at the foot of the bed. The old woman instructed Sansa to disrobe completely. She drew out a flowing white garment diaphanous with age. Made of cotton, the dress was cut wide at the neck and so was easy to pull over Sansa's hair. The sleeves were full and flowing as was the rest of the dress, "to accommodate whoever would be Speaker," the old woman explained. Sansa was a bit taken aback that the dress fell half way between her knees and ankles. The old woman cackled "Considering what comes later; it is much more important that the garment not drag the ground than that it covers every bit of you." Sansa nodded blushing. She had been so trained in her modesty that she had forgotten again what she was readying herself for. The woman handed Sansa a braided length of hemp that was very long and dyed many colors. "You may wind this around yourself accentuating what features you wish." Sansa sighed at how cunning the idea it was to allow the dress to serve as many as possible. Many ideas of ways she could crisscross the long colorful belt to accentuate her hourglass figure leapt to her mind. Sansa tamped them down remembering that nothing good had ever come to her from calling attention to her beauty. She encircled her waist thrice and tied a neat even bow. The old woman surveyed her choice mildly though her bushy brows climbed almost high enough to tangle in the hair on her head. "It seems even I can still be surprised."

 

At this time there was a knock at the door. The old woman went to answer it. Sansa could easily see her head that Arya was the visitor. The old woman cringed back with a hiss. Arya also stepped back showing empty hands. "Please, I mean you no harm."

 

"The harm you mean others oozes from you. It burns me, a peaceful old creature. The horror I see written in your path! I smell the blood dripping from your hands."

 

At this Arya's bold brows scrunched nearly to meet over her pert nose. "I don't see you hissing and spitting at the men out there. I bet they've killed loads more men than me."

 

"Yes, but there is only one out that hates like you and even his darkness is waning. Yours is yet on the rise."

 

Arya seemed to have no argument for that. "Can I see my sister, or will that contaminate her?"

 

"It may, but you may." The old woman took her cane from beside the door allowing much room for Arya to pass inside, but not near her. She turned toward Sansa, "I must go prepare your Choices. I will send someone to you, when the time is right." The door closed behind her, and the two sisters stared at one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am interested to hear what you guys think is going to happen in the ritual.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor's side of the prep work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for an edits. I'm just slapping this up before trick or treating as Halloween treat. I promise to edit better later.

After speaking with Sansa, Sandor spent the morning tending the horses and staying away from those who had been screaming for his blood the night before, which included the little she-wolf who was Sansa's sister.

Oddly enough that left him with Bowstring, who he quickly learned was named Tom Sevenstreams who had actually been strangling him with a lute string, and Thoros of Myr, who he had not recognized without his ale belly and a flaming sword. Sandor knew the two men wanted to find out what lay between him and Sansa, but he'd be damned if he let them pry into his life. He had managed to find out some choice things from these men, like the probable whereabouts of his brother: Harrenhal. And the price Dondarrion planned to ask the Young Wolf for the she-wolf: 5000 dragons. All and all good news and bad.

About mid-morning Dondarrion's squire came running along saying the woods witch wanted every able-bodied man at the circle, which Sandor learned was the largest white stump on the hill. It was big enough that he and three men just as big could sleep comfortably upon it without having to find a septon the next morning. When Sandor arrived with Tom and Thoros, the little old woman was standing upon the stump leaning on her cane and gazing out upon the assembled men. He and his companions were among the last to arrive so Sandor had a good view of the back of the heads of most of the men in camp. The kid the Hound had punched in the face last night, whose name he'd learned was Gendry a new-made knight in the brotherhood without banners, was there, as well as the big son of a bitch Sansa had nearly slit open who's name Sandor recalled as Lem. He couldn't be too sure about the Harwin fellow because he was so average, but Sando thought he might be toward the front.

As soon as he stopped walking the crone pointed her cane at Sandor and said, "Warrior come forward."

Sandor purely hated being up in front of people, but Sansa had warned him that he would be a part of this horse shite ritual. If it was important to her, he'd play his role. Sandor moved through the crowd easily as it parted for him. He marked the form of Beric Dondarrion sitting on a different stump with some old timers and men who had obviously been wounded. Sandor climbed easily onto the raised stump and assumed the guard position behind the old woman. 

"Smith," she pronounced next and pointed at Gendry. Makes sense why he was strong enough hold me, Sandor thought with no little relief. He'd been in a blind panic when the she-wolf had had him on the ground leaving the Little Bird basically defenseless among all those other men. At the time Sandor had no idea who she was, and he'd almost killed her. Sansa would have never forgiven him for that. Gendry approached the stump even shier about it than Sandor. He tried to make it up in one step as Sandor had too. When the kid looked like he might topple, Sandor put out his hand. Blue eyes met gray, and many things got settled as Sandor pulled him up onto the stump.

Now a hush fell over everything as the old woman seemed to search the face of every man in the crowd. "I've probably fathered the most children," Tom offered snarkily, and he played the intro to "The Maids that Bloom in Spring." 

"But this is no Spring Maid Tom, but one on the edge of Fall. We need a different sort of Father when winter is coming." The crone's eyes fell on the Northman Harwin. "Father come forward."

Harwin stood rooted eyes wide. "I'm sorry ma'am," he said respectfully. "From all the ill words I've heard, my wee ones," he paused to swallow his eyes swimming, "are likely dead. And if no' then my wife's alive. I canna partake in this rite."

"If you know what this is we do, then you who I am. Look me in the eye man, and refuse me again." Sandor took a step back from the wizened old woman, so terrible did seem for a moment, blazing with indignation to surpass even Cersei in a fit. A buzz of the power that warned him away from camping on the hill last night washed over him.

"Aye," said Harwin hanging his head as he moved toward the stump as if to an execution.

Sandor was expecting to be joined by one more man, but the old woman made a shooing motion to the rest of the men. "Off with your now!" They began to disperse slowly. She turned back to the three men she'd harvested from the crowd. "I strongly advise you find a bath. Be back here at midday." She hobbled to a place on the stump were a ramp was discreetly cut into the wood. She shuffled down it and headed off in the direction of her cottage.

Sandor followed the other toward the stream but veered off when was passing where the horses were picketed. Sandor had left Stranger saddled the night before, partially so the horse could guard his belongings partially in case they needed to leave quickly. He was not pleased to find the horse pawing at a scrap of yellow fabric. Sandor patted the horse and checked his pack. The gold was still there wrapped up in some truly wretched smelling socks at the bottom of the bag he kept his camping gear. Every few coins were painstakingly wrapped in linen to prevent clinking. Sandor pulled out cleanish clothes and a sliver of Sansa's lavender soap that she had carefully pared off her own bar and given him the last time they had stopped to bathe. He figured that was her way of politely letting him know she didn't care for the way he smelled. Sandor had to admit that having her scent on him all the time was pleasant...and distracting. He rolled the soap up in his spare shirt and strode off after the other two men.

As he caught up with them Harwin seemed to be allaying Gendry's fears, "No boy it won't hurt...you. You'll be fine, even if ya get chosen." Harwin shot Sandor a searching look as he pulled even with the Brotherhood men. Sandor cursed himself for missing the opening of the conversation as he returned the Northerner's look disdainfully.

Gendry looked relieved, though he apparently still had questions, "Can't you just tell me what's gonna 'appen?"

"Lad, the Speaking's different in different places. I'd hate to get you riled up for no reason. What I can tell you, is that it'll be safe or the woods witch wouldn't let Lady Sansa do it. What I can also tell ya is that everyone will be changed, but probably for the better if you just let go and let the spirit of the ritual move you." 

Gendry turned to Sandor, "I saw you talking to Lady Sansa this morning. Did she tell you what was 'appenin'?" Sandor could feel the Northman's gaze upon him once again.

"I know what I need to." The half-truth grated on Sandor's nerves, but there was no helping it. He was irritated at Sansa for putting him in a situation where he did not have all the information he needed to appear strong among possible foes. They would be speaking about this as soon as she was allowed to speak with him again. "What the fuck are you looking at?" He lashed out at Harwin.

The Northman narrowed his eyes at Sandor again, and it reminded him uncomfortably of the way Eddard Stark had looked at him the night he'd had the butcher's boy slung over his saddle. "I haven't quite decided yet."

Sandor was itching for a fight. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, that the former guard dog of the family that held my Lord's daughter, a lass I've known all her life, is defended by that young woman. She's snuggled up next to him of a night, but she doesn't trust him with her secrets. Makes me wonder what the fuck is going on. Makes me think you have something over her. Makes me want to see you swing for your crimes."

"You want my head, come try and take," Sandor invited roughly to cover the impact Harwin's words had on him. The Little Bird didn't trust him, and he didn't blame her.

"Depending on how the Speakin' goes, I just might."

Their talk had brought them to the banks of a stream. They all stood in tense silence for a moment. "If you think I'm laying down my sword and shucking my clothes while a man who wants me to swing settles down to watch, then you've spent one too many cold night howling at a winter moon," Sandor growled sliding his eyes over Harwin.

"We all go together then because you are not exactly trustworthy in my book," the Northman replied meeting the Hound's gaze with a narrowed one of his own.

Sandor considered heading upstream to bathe alone, but time was wearing on, and he wanted to wash his clothes as well as his body. "Aye," Sandor grunted. He rested his hand on his sword belt. Harwin did the same. Gendry was not armed, and so he sat down on a fallen log and began taking off his boots. The armed men unbuckled their sword belts eye on one another for suspicious movements. Sandor leaned his scabbard up against one of the rocks that was half in the stream. Harwin hung his from a low hanging limb. Both moved away from his weapon and began to disrobe keeping a wary eye on one another. 

Sandor could tell that the other two men had been eating lean. Sandor had not yet seen the effect of short suppers on his physique, but he knew it was coming. Muscles mass would start to spread out, and all fat would burn away. He sighed not looking forward to the loss of strength as he shed the last of his clothing. He had been hungry before; he'd go hungry again if he had to, to ensure Sansa's safety. 

Bundling his clothes and the soap in one meaty fist, he used his free hand to steady his descent into the chilly waters. He drew back with a sharp intake of breath as Gendry splashed in careless of temperature. Harwin snorted a laugh through his nose as he pushed his wet hair out of his face. Sandor was uncomfortably aware that he and Harwin were probably around the same age and they were both closer in age to Ned Stark than to Sansa.  As Sandor soaped up his battered scar covered body, he couldn't help his eyes being drawn to Gendry's pale form as he flailed around, hooting at how cold the water was. The kid had various burn marks here and there, but not a single raggedly stitched up sword wound that Sandor could see. The Northman, on the other hand, had a hide littered with souvenirs from battles or hunts. His fiercest scar was a set of claw marks over his right shoulder. 

He rinsed the soap from his skin and then began lathering up his clothes. He was used to the water temperature by now and preferred the chill of the waist-high water over having to stoop over the bank in nothing but his skin. "Hey Clegane," Gendry began, "can I borrow your soap?" Sandor just gave him a hard look and went back to laundering his clothes. "What?!" the kid asked incredulously as Harwin snickered. The Northman was using handfuls of sand from the bottom of the stream bed to scour himself clean.

"No man, wants another man to smell like his woman, lad," the Northman explained. Sandor transferred his hard look to Harwin. "What!?" the other man asked in a fair impersonation of the lad. Sandor's scowl deepened. "If I'm not right, do us all a favor and lend the boy yer soap." Sandor flipped him the bird and concentrated on the stain on his shirt. "Don't bother with the shirt, man. You won't need it for the Chosin'." He had all Sandor's attention now. We'll go shirtless at the least, to give the lassie a good look at what she'll be chosin'." One of the Northman's brows waggled suggestively. "Some of the wickeder lassies I've seen have been known to inspect their choices even more closely than that." 

Sandor would have wondered at the change in the man's attitude if he hadn't been blushing so hard. A very vivid image of the Little Bird peeping down his breeches was now firmly lodged in his mind and it was affecting the rest of him. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Sandor growled.

"Oh, I'll not spoil the surprise for ya." The Northman said to Sandor with a shit eating grin. Then he turned to Gendry. "Yer clean enough lad. If she gave him a piece of the same soap her Mam washed her hair with as a bairn you and me got no worries of getting picked. We might as well leave the man to his laundry." Sandor stood, shirt in hand, twisted mouth agape, horror dawning in his mind at the implications of Harwin's words. As the Northman was passing by Sandor, he stopped to look up at the larger more heavily muscled man with more menace that Sandor would have previously thought his mild face capable of. "You be careful with her, Hound. Tom sneaked up on you once; I'll pay him to do it again. We didn't outright kill you then because we'd been watching you for several hours and saw how m'lady thought well of you. If that changes you won't have a trial by combat, like the Lord of Light says. You'll get a dagger heart in the dead of the night. Do you know why they are called Heart Trees? Because back in the days when the Wall was new, we'd pin the hearts of our enemies up above the faces carved in the trees and let the blood run down outlinin' them in red. We did it so much that all Heart Trees now weep our enemies blood though they've not been consecrated in a century. But you'll do for the next sacrifice if you hurt her overmuch. Mark my words."

Sandor took a step back from the Northman and nodded mutely. For a moment he'd seen fire in the man's eyes and felt the buzz of the unknown power of the Hill. Or was it something even older than that had kept Sandor from attempting to camp on the hill last night. 

In order to convince himself that nothing was amiss, Sandor turned his back to the men leaving the stream, scrubbing his shirt. When he no longer heard them dressing behind him, he waded to the bank swishing the shirt in water as he went and then laid it on a sunny rock to dry. He'd sensed a profound truth to the Northman's words, but Sandor would wear all his clothes to the ceremony in case Harwin was having a go at him. Sandor felt a deep unease that pulled at the darkest corners of his memory. It was tied to the reason he didn't want to camp here. For long years his brother's keep had a sinister reputation. "Blood rites," people whispered. Rumors of orgies, where most of the participants were unwilling slithered around the west.  There had even been tales of human sacrifice. Sandor shook his head sharply as if to send those thoughts...memories back to the shadows of his mind where they belonged. He finished his washing, scrubbing harder than he needed to, but unable to cleanse his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me tricks or treats in the comment section so that I know how you feel about this chapter.


	5. Choosing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's choosing time folks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is like the matinee. The whole villiage comes by for some free entertainment. It's a little naughty but only the adults really understand the adult stuff.

A knock at the door made a bright head and a dark head turn as one toward the sound. Arya sprang up to answer it while Sansa got to her bare feet gracefully and flowed after her sister on the cloud of her ceremonial gown. 

 

"Hey Ned," Arya greeted the tow-headed young man who stood in the doorway clad in worn but nice clothing. The wind caught the lilac cloak he was wearing a little swirl which made him look rather dashing.

 

Sansa sunk into a graceful curtsy worthy of court but said nothing as she was not allowed to speak with a man before the Choosing. The young man took a step back from Arya and bowed properly to them both. "Thank you for saying his name, Arya, so that I would know the Lord of Starfall," Sansa murmured to her sister, in case Arya didn't know with whom they were conversing. It was also so that Edric Dayne would see that she knew exactly who he was. There was no point learning the names of every noble in Westeros if you were going to show off a little bit.

 

Arya rolled her eyes at Sansa. "I know who he is. We've been traveling together for weeks, or maybe it's been months now. He came right up and introduced himself not long after the Brotherhood..." here Arya surprised Sansa, by searching for a tactful way to say captured "took us in. As you can see he's big on manners." Ned, who was watching the two sisters quietly flushed a bit. "Not in a bad way," Arya hastened to reassure him.  
 

Sansa's fairly astute abilities to school her features into a mask finally cracked into a knowing smile. She caught Arya's eye and grinned a promise to speak more about this later. Then it was Arya's turn to blush.

 

Ned cleared his throat and let the Ladies Stark know that "the Woods Witch of High Heart requires the presences of The Elder Starke Sister, and requests the presences of The Younger Stark Sister." He held out an arm to each of them. Sansa looped her own through his smoothly. She had had enough practice at this after all. And though Ned was very handsome, he was no sir Loras to get a girl all flustered and tongue-tied. And that sort didn't really interest Sansa anymore anyway. She'd learned her lesson about knights and squires very well, by now. Arya was a good deal more awkward about it. She misjudged the angle and a torn fingernail snagged on the fine lawn of his shirt. "It's alright my lady," Ned soothed Arya shyly. 

 

Sansa had to turn her head completely least she betray the wild smile spreading across her face. She'd just spent the last couple of hours catching up with her sister, who had mentioned Ned on a couple of occasions. Not like Gendry who was practically every other word out of her mouth. Sansa knew from her sister's stories that she'd known Gendry a good deal longer and had a deep regard for him, but she thought Arya liked Ned a lot too. Sometimes deep regard can turn into something brotherly or friendly, Sansa thought to herself sagely. She'd gotten her face back under control so that she could become as much a part of the conversation as was ritualistically appropriate. "My Lord says the Woods Witch told us where your mother and brother are going to be in a week before she...became upset by your presence," Ned was telling Arya.

 

"Will we leave as soon as Sansa's ritual is done?" Arya asked eagerly.

 

Ned nodded. "Maybe even directly after. My Lord says that we should all sleep until the moon rises if we can get so that we can ride by night once the Speaking is complete."

 

Hearing about the impending ceremony set off a storm of butterflies in Sansa's belly, and she floated on them all the way to the clearing.

### 

Sandor made it a point to stay out of clearing until it was nearly mid-day. He unsaddled and groomed Stranger, watching the stallion wander through the trees unburdened. Sandor did this similarly unburdened as his damp clothes dried in the breeze on a tree limb. Once the sun was on its final ascent, Sandor dressed and buckled on his sword belt, leaving his armor and shield piled near a saddled and sleek Stranger. The warhorse huffed but made no other complaint besides butting Sandor in the back as his master turned from him to head to the ceremony. The scarred warrior's lips ticked up into a smile. His horse had been taught to attack anyone who turned his back on the beast within striking distance. Even Sandor.

 

When he reached, the clearing Sandor could see that Gendry stood sheepishly on the stump, shirtless and very apparently interested in the wood grain beneath his feet. The old woman stood beside him cackling. She was holding something her hands that Sandor thought might be the source of Gendry's discomfort, but Sandor could not tell what it was from here. Harwin was walking in from the other side removing his shirt. Sandor found himself dodging a few children as he moved toward the stump and also took notice of women loitering in the shade of the trees, observing the proceedings. Gendry seemed to have collected himself quite a fan club, tittering and giggling and pointing from a stump where many young women had gathered. Harwin had some admirers as well, but they were standing dividing their time between watching children and watching him. Sandor even felt a couple of pairs of hot eyes on him. There was a certain kind of woman who recognized his size smooth movement as something to be sought after in a bedmate. Sandor wouldn't turn them down if they were bold enough to proposition him, but he was never the pursuer. He preferred whores as a sure thing, but did enjoy the way that nonprofessionals squirmed and sighed. His partners' pleasure had never been high on his list of, but he took as much pride as the next man in a job well done. 

 

He reached the circle more or less the same time Harwin did. The crone nodded to the Northman, but stopped Sandor with the gleam in her eerie red eyes. "You won't be needing your shirt or your sword."

 

"You named me the Warrior. More than passing strange for him to be without either," Sandor countered.

 

"Do you see a hammer or a child in the circle? I'll wager you're the Warrior stark naked abed at midnight. You need no props." Sandor had to give her that. So he unbuckled his sword belt and leaned it against the stump so that it would be in easy reach if he needed it. In all honesty, Sandor had a knife in each boot and his hands and teeth if it came down to it. He started to climb up, and the old woman cleared her voice giving his shirt a pointed look. Sandor gave her a hard look in return before reaching behind his back and grabbing a fistful of the freshly laundered white fabric and pulled it over his head in one smooth movement. There were more than a few gasps as his shirt came off and Sandor did not care for the audible attention. His body was both an offensive and defensive structure, and he treated it as such. He trained hard to maintain a level of strength and skill that ensured that he didn't have to take to shit from anyone. This physically manifested as slabs of muscle stretched over a tall, broad frame. Because he was from a warm climate, he often used the hot part of the day to train coolly with as little to hinder movement as possible, leaving mornings and evenings to train with his armor. This practice gave his skin a bronzed glow. It was also covered in hair and scars, and Sandor could never be quite sure if reactions to his bare hide were favorable or not. He shrugged to himself setting off all kinds of interesting ripples. It really didn't matter to him one way or another.

 

"I can hold that for you," offered a female voice. Sandor turned to find a short round woman with saucy green eyes smiling up at him, "so it doesn't get dirty." Her eyes were everywhere but on the shirt that he assumed, she was speaking of, though by the tone in her voice she could be talking about his dick too. 

 

Before Sansa had sprouted teats, this would have been an interesting turn of events, but now his focus was elsewhere. "No thank you." Now she's got me chirping at strangers, Sandor thought as continued speaking to the woman in front of him. "I like to keep all my belongings in one place." He folded his shirt up and set it on the stump next to where his sword waited, as proof of this new truth he'd discovered.

 

"You can leave all your things with me...if you're not doing anything else tonight," she uttered before she gave him a wink, bobbed a bouncy little curtsy, and sauntered off to join he friends who were the ones carrying on over Gendry.

 

 There was another pointed throat clearing, and Sandor turned back to look at the old woman. Even from the ground, he could look her in the eyes. "You are now fit to ascend the altar." Sandor didn't like the sound of that, though he complied. He also didn't like the look of the what she was holding. It was a smooth wooden shaft, shiny with much lacquer about as long as the blade of his dagger and bulbous at one end. He thought he might have seen something similar in a fancy whore house once and seeing it here and now made him distinctly wary. The old woman gave him a nasty, mostly toothless smile before her eyes focused on something behind him. "The maiden comes," the crone intoned in a voice not her own.

 

Everyone in the clearing stopped to look as Sansa, and the she-wolf were escorted into the clearing by a pretty boy in a purple cape. Sandor growled, and Gendry snorted. He's prettier than Loras Tyrell, Sandor thought darkly. "Who's the caped wonder?" He asked Gendry in a low rumble.  
 

"His highness, Lord of the Starry Skies or some such shite," Gendry replied his voice and brows low and dangerous. From that very poor description, the kid between Sansa and Arya could have been a lot of people. Sandor had made it his business to know most of the knights at court on site or by sigil as well as their squires. Sandor pretended disdain for knights and their doings, but in order to do his job well, Sandor needed to know who the other warriors in his vicinity were and what they were capable of. He remembered that Dondarrion had a Dayne lad as a squire. The kid didn't look like much now, but as the probable nephew of Sir Arthur Dayne, he had a promising bloodline. 

 

It was then that Sandor looked more closely at the trio approaching them. Sansa's eyes were wholly focused on him, her lips slightly parted as if surprised by something. Sandor wasn't sure he was going to be able to tear his eyes off her, she looked so lovely in a billowy white dress that bared near half her shapely legs. But he needed to fully assess the clearing to assure her safety. He pulled his eyes to the fancy lad that was talking to the short dark Stark sister. That young lady was no longer paying her escort any heed as she was staring hard at Gendry. So that's the way the wind blows there, Sandor thought to himself, tucking the information away for future use. His eyes made another scan of the clearing marking almost all the Brotherhood armed and standing toward the tree, some grumpily by their stance, facing outward into the forest. Villagers of all walks of life had begun making their way toward other stumps to sit on as soon as Sansa had entered the clearing. It seemed to Sandor that if they could trust the Brotherhood, then things seemed secure for the moment. He didn't really want to give that trust, but he could no longer keep his eyes off Sansa so give it he must.

 

The blonde kid halted at a point about five feet from the stump that Sandor and the others stood upon. Both sisters tried to continue forward, but he stopped them gently saying, "This is where we wait for a moment my ladies," softly. Sandor, straining with all his senses toward Sansa heard it anyway. Arya looked mutinous and Sansa blushed.

 

"Who comes forward as the Speaker?" The crone called. Her cracked voice reached improbably to the edges of the clearing.

 

"I do," said Sansa letting go her hold on the blonde's arm. Something in Sandor relaxed when their contact broke.

 

"Come forth to Choose your companion for the ritual. You may inspect them in any way you see fit, but you may not speak with them."

 

Sansa nodded her understanding and started forward. The blond pulled Arya toward the stump closest to the circle. He also had to urge her gently to sit.

 

The men were standing near the edge of the circle closet to the other stumps, which was not near the ramp that old woman used to come and go. Sansa walked straight to them. As if he knew what to do Harwin silently jumped down and crouched making a cup of his hand. Sansa set her lovely barefoot into it flashing Sandor and everybody else quite a bit of leg. Sandor prodded Gendy who was still mooning over Arya, and the held his hand out to the radiant redhead. Gendry was a little slow on the uptake, but the Little Bird did not fall on her tail feathers as the two of them pulled her into an upright position on the stump. Sandor held his hand out to steady Harwin's ascent as Sansa advanced on Gendry.

 

Sandor had a sense that everything now was planned, as she walked purposefully around the young man three times, her eyes skimming over the hard planes and curving lines of his body, but also darting back to Sandor or Arya depending on which one was in her line of sight. "Give each representative of the gods fair consideration," the crone droned. Sansa came to stand in front of Gendry one final time. He took his eyes off his feet for the first time and looked bashfully down at Sansa. He was not much taller than she, but he did have to tilt his head down to meet her gaze. Sandor did not care for the long look they exchanged, but it passed soon enough.

 

Next Sansa began to silently encircle the Northman, a man she'd known all her life. Harwin watched her make her circuits, with a sad hazy smile on his face. A furrow dug between Sansa's coppery brows. When she came to stand before Harwin, she was able to look him right in the eye. "Yer all grown up," he said the heavy Northern burr clinging to his words. "He'd be proud, yer steerin' yer own path." Sansa smiled, and tears rolled down her cheeks. 

 

Sansa scrubbed at the tear tracks as she came to inspect Sandor. Her movements changed and became much more deliberate. There was a sway to her hips that made his cock throb, and he's soon be on display for all to see. Well, I'm a man sure enough. Shouldn't be any surprises on that score, he thought. He started at her touch on his back as she traced the scar he'd taken in the sack of King's Landing. It was a jagged, ugly slash across his lower right ribs. Sandor's breath came in an audible gasp as she kissed his scar. Mother, Maiden, and Crone! he swore to himself. Was that her tongue he'd felt?! He was sure that every soul with eyes could take his measure plain, as his member strained against his breeches, but he stood tall and still in the guard position. When Sansa circled back into his view, her eyes were on his face. Her expression was glassy, and her irises were blown despite the noon sun. It was her turn to make a small urgent noise when she saw the state of him. Sandor gritted his teeth and reminded himself how important this ritual was to just about everyone here but him. He wanted to throw her down to the white wood and find out what every inch of her tasted like, but Sandor was pretty sure that the archer would feather him if he tried. It was easier to breathe once she'd disappeared around his shoulder. Sandor took advantage and deep breath in through his nose. He could still smell her, though her own scent was cloaked in a something she'd never worn before. It was dark and warm a little familiar. This time he felt her nails scrap across his back and every hair on his body stood straight up. The action elicited a growling sort of purr from deep in his chest and as she came around him, her nails bumped over onto his arm. He dreaded what would happen next, but inwardly vowed to take it like a man. He grunted as her nails trailed over onto the rippled plane of his stomach. The muscles in his abdomen all bunched and spasmed, but he managed not to make too much noise. Sansa, on the other hand, let out a peel of laughter as her fingers splayed out into claws. He gave her a look somewhere between a threat and a plea. She relented with a wicked smile that promised further mischief. His cock twitched. Her eyes followed the movement, and she licked her lips. Sandor almost went to his knees as he felt all the blood leaving his head. He stumbled, and she pressed against him, for a moment his only anchor in a sea of lust. He buried his face in her hair inhaling deeply heedless of the random twigs and berries scraping his face. "Consider each carefully," the old woman's voice seemed to break the spell binding them, as Sandor remember that other things existed besides he and Sansa. Sansa pulled away from him slowly making sure he would stand on his own. She made her final circuit with haste and came to stand in front of him. He had no idea what he'd gotten himself into, but Sandor wanted to be chosen by her more than he wanted his next breath.

 

"There is still the Stranger to consider," the crone said taking Sansa's gaze from his. She moved reluctantly to stand in front of the tiny woman. "If you find none worthy among your Choices or your heart belongs to another, Chose him," and the old woman offered up the phallus. Sansa considered it for a moment, but her eyes moved back to Sandor. Her body followed until she stood beside him, twining her fingers through his. She'd never done that before, and the new intimacy made his chest ache. "I Choose the Warrior," Sansa said, and her voice did not sound like her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I'm excited to hear what you all think.


	6. Spilling Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's about 12 hours between the Choosing and the Speaking. This is the beginning of how that time gets filled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we head into this chapter, Sansa knows the ins and outs of both the Choosing and the Speaking.

"The choosing has been successful," pronounced the crone. She dismissed Gendry and Harwin with a look. This left Sansa and Sandor alone in the circle with her. Instead of wood she now held a faded, blue ribbon in her gnarled, old hands. "Give me your hands. You will be bound until the Speaking."

 

Neither Sandor nor his throbbing cock were happy about this turn of events. He'd hoped for a moment to himself among the trees or possibly a dip in that cold stream after the cock tease Sansa had given him. His situation was not helped by the way that Sansa looked shyly up at him biting her lip. It was as if the temptress of a few moments ago had evaporated leaving his pleasant traveling companion and a stiff dick.

 

Sandor grudgingly gave his left hand to the old woman. "I'll have your main hand," she said, her cracked voice normal once again.

 

"You'll have to cut it off then," Sandor said. His blood was up, and he'd had enough. The old woman glared up at him through blood red eyes. "I'm not moving on this one. I'll have my sword hand free to defend her. She can bloody well choose someone else if this is a deal breaker." 

 

Sansa made a sound of protest, but the old woman held up her hand for silence. "You'd give her to another, in order to be better able to protect her?" The old woman's fluffy brows climbed up her brow.

 

"Aye," Sandor said though it felt like the time Measter Pycell had, had to dig out his tooth when it broke as he took a mace to the helm in a melee. Only this time it felt like something was being dug out of his chest.

 

The old woman waited for a long time her head cocked. "Your left will do." Sandor quickly thrust his left hand at her before she changed her mind. Sansa gave her left as well. He thought she looked angry. Well, she could just be that way. "Any fighting you do will have to be one-handed. It is the bond that is important."

 

"One-handed is better than off-handed," Sandor insisted gruffly. The wrenching pain and loss he'd experienced when he thought he was going to watch Sansa bounded to someone else made his dick go limp, so at least he would be able to walk normally. Which was good because, as soon as the old woman had tied the last knot, Sansa was off like a shot. There was some awkwardness at the lip of the stump which Sandor solved by grasping Sansa's wrist, lifting her off the stump and lowering her the couple of feet to the ground. But then she practically yanked him to the ground in her haste to be gods knew where. Once he was firmly on his feet, he dug them in, and she was yanked to an unceremonious halt. She turned to glare at him, her vivid blue eyes blazing with fury.  
 

"Let's not forget what started this fight, aye." Sandor snarled grabbing up his sword and shirt. Sansa started to hurry off again, but he would not budge until the sword was properly buckled on. "It's a bond, not a bloody leash," he growled under his breath.  
 

"One more thing," the crone said, a twinkle of laughter in her eye, "Neither of you eats unless from the other's hand. You may not drink unless from the other's lips."

 

###

Sansa was so mad she could spit, and she'd never done that before. Sandor had nearly traded her away for the use of his sword hand. Of all the stubborn, stupid...gallant...She had to admit that he hadn't known precisely what was at stake. And it was sort of romantic that he'd rather defend her than be with her. _Stop it, Sansa,_ she chided herself. _I'm acting this way because I was afraid for a moment. I just need to take some deep breaths and calm down._

 

She followed her own advice, and slowly her pace slackened, so she was no longer dragging Sandor up the tree-lined path to the cottage. Her stomach twisted and made a gurgling sound. 

 

A laugh rumbled from Sandor. "So that's what's wrong. You're hungry. You are always feistier when you're hungry."

 

"Fine words from a man who would literally kill another person in order to eat." There had nearly been an incident on the road.

 

"I know I'm the pot calling the kettle black. Let's just get to the food before we have it out on the path for the gods and all to see. He scooped her over his shoulder and lengthened his strides to a pace she would not have been able to match without running. Sansa was reminded uncomfortably of the day of the bread riots. Now there was not armor digging into her tummy, only the solid flesh of his broad shoulder. It was not too uncomfortable, but more disorienting. She concentrated on how it felt good instead of frightening and they made it to the cottage in no time. Sandor set Sansa on her feet, and she opened the door ushering Sandor in.

 

"So this is where you whispered secrets and slept while I spent a cold night on the ground" Sandor grumbled as he stooped to enter the house and could not straighten once inside. "Fuck it," he said dropping to all fours to crawl. "This is easier on the back," he threw over his shoulder toward the gales of giggles Sansa poured on him as she was pulled down too.

 

"Sandor this isn't going to work." He straightened his back so that Sansa could stand comfortably upright. She had the disorienting experience of looking down on him. "The table's over here," She said gesturing to a battered old slab on mismatched legs. It was laden with fruit and pudding and chilled wine.

 

Sandor squinted at it. "There's no meat," he said flatly.

 

"Not everyone eats meat at every meal," Sansa reminded him.

 

Sandor just growled, and Sansa's tummy echoed him. It was his turn to laugh. "Will you please?" Sansa asked indicating some grapes. "I have been fasting."

 

"Oh right," Sandor said as if he'd only just remembered the last thing set down by the old woman. He shuffled to the table on his knees and took a handful of grapes from the bowl. He climbed up in the stronger looking chair and held out one of the grapes to Sansa. She eagerly took it from his fingers with her mouth getting a taste of his skin in her haste. 

 

There was a sharp intake of breath. "I'm so sorry, did I bite you?" she asked doubtfully.

 

He chuckled a bit to himself. "No, you didn't bite me," he assured her and fed her all the rest of the grapes in his hand one by one. As Sansa chewed, she considered the pudding. Grapes were not going to fill her, but she would have to lick the pudding out of his hand in order to get it. And she was thirsty too.

 

Sandor's eyes followed hers. The unburnt corner of his mouth turned up. "I'm hungry too Sansa. I think I'll have the pudding."

 

Sansa's heart jumped into motion. She hadn't even considered what it would be like to have him eating out of her hands. "Are you sure?" she asked tentatively. "It seems like it will be an awful mess."

 

"Oh aye. I'm very sure. This whole thing's been an awful mess. And yes I am sure I want to eat that pudding out of your soft little hands, so you'll know what it felt like when you licked me up on that stump. I know those grapes are not going to be enough to fill your fasting belly and you'll soon enough be eating out of my hands as well."

 

Sansa couldn't argue with his logic, so she scooped some pudding into her hand and came to stand between Sandor's spread legs. Sandor leaned forward taking her hand in his, he pulled it to his mouth, and he sucked. He did not stop sucking when his lips hit flesh, but he did start licking. The variation in textures from one side of his mouth to the other along with his warm wet tongue sent a thrill down Sansa's spine that she felt all the way down to her bare toes. She moaned, and Sandor growled scraping his teeth over the tender skin of her wrist. When she moaned again, he continued to nip and suck up the underside of her arm pushing up the billowy sleeve with hot calloused hands to expose more or her delicate, tingling skin. When he got up to her armpit, he growled again and borrowed his face there along with a couple of his fingers tickling her mercilessly. She squealed squirming and twisting. "Stop!" she shrieked laughing. 

 

Sandor did immediately, grinning up at her. "Payback's a bitch," he rasped. 

 

"Sandor," she admonished.

 

"At least I didn't do for you in public." He pulled back his face serious. "Sansa, we need to talk. Everything about this situation is designed to make me spill in my breeches. You have got to tell me what is going on." Sansa blushed profusely and ducked her head. "Whatever this ritual is, I get that you need to do it. There is nothing I won't do for you Little Bird, but I need to know what's going to happen, or I might fly off the handle and kill someone."

 

"I'm not sure I can say it..." she trailed off questioningly.

 

"Then how the fuck are we supposed to do it?" Sandor answered.

 

"Well..."

###

"The choosing is complete."

 

Arya was dammed glad because she had seen enough of the way most of the women were staring at Gendry. He was the best one up there on that stupid stump and she had been beyond relieved that Sansa had not chosen him. She was more than a little disgusted that her sister had chosen the Hound, but they had come to an understanding in their talk in the cottage. Arya didn't have to like Sandor or forgive him, but she was not allowed to try to kill him anymore. So she was biding her time.

 

The twisted old woman was droning on about a bunch of rules that Sandor and Sansa had to follow until later tonight.

 

Many of the people who had come to the Choosing wanted a word with the woods witch. Arya waited impatiently for that to be over. Once the tiny old woman was alone, Arya accosted her. She waited out the obligatory shriek and cringe. Arya had a to-do list. Everyone on it was more of a monster than she was, she didn't understand what the old woman's problem was.

 

"I want my own Speaking," Arya demanded.

 

"Do you bleed child?" the crone asked.

 

(Flashback time!)

 

Arya's face flamed remembering the morning not too long ago when she had awoken at The Peach her thighs sticky with blood. She'd apparently made some sort of noise when she discovered it that awakened Gendry. He'd peered over her shoulder concerned. At the blood on her hands, his thick brows shott up and his full expressive mouth twisted in concern. She'd pointed down and he looked under the covers at the smear of blood on the sheets then gave her a crooked grin. "It's just yer moon blood," he'd said in a low voice that vibrated through her. She shook her head, mute with horror. "It's supposed to be that way. Didn't yer mum tell ya 'bout it?" More head shaking and his smile widened but softened. "Go wake up Tansy and the other girls, and they'll explain everything to you. It's fine, yer not dying, I promise."

 

"How do you know about this?" she asked not sure how to get over Lem who was directly to her left and her only obstacle to freedom in this moment when she wanted so badly to bolt.

 

"My mum and the women she worked with used to talk about it all the time. It's a big topic of conversation among womenfolk," Gendry explained. He cocked his head at her. "Yer really not like the rest of 'em are ya Arry?" he said, his eyes gone all gooey in the way that made her tummy flip. Without another word he scooped her up and tossed her over Lem. She landed perfectly turning to see Gendry wiping some of her blood from his arm on the sheets. The sheets! she thought, blood rushing to her face. Gendry could either read her mind or everything she thought was written on her face again. "Don't worry; I'll clean up. And if any of these buggers asks, I'll tell 'em I cut myself shaving," Gendry teased softly.

 

Arya dug the pantaloons out from the pile of linen and lace she'd ditched in the corner the night before and pulled them on under her tunic and scampered down the hall. She'd listened at doors until she'd heard high pitched voices conversing softly. She'd knocked, entered and told her story to a group of the younger girls that humiliatingly included the black haired blue eyed Bella who'd offered to ring Gendry's bells the night before. All the girls cooed and sighed and rushed over themselves to get her a bath and all sorts of advice about lots of things like bell ringings and rag belts.

 

Later Arya had come upon Lem pinning Gendry to the wall with one of his great meaty hands on Gendry's broad shoulder. "That better have been moon blood as you say, and not maiden's blood boy or I'll shove your cock and balls right up yer ass. When will you get it through your thick bull head that she's not for you?"

 

Gendry bounced up on his toes and re-broke Lem's nose for him. "Keep yer fucking hands to yerself like yer always tellin' me ta do. I know who she is. I've known longer, and I know better who she is. And I know she's not for me. But that doesn't mean that I'm gonna stop bein' her friend. And if yer mad that she learned the facts of life from a bunch of whores then how 'bout you don't bring her to a fuckin' whore house. Where the hell were you last night when some asshole tried to take her upstairs? I'm gonna guess you were balls deep in a whore yourself. But I was there to make an excuse. So you can go fuck yerself, Lem.

 

Arya had taken herself back up the stairs quick and quiet as a cat after that. That conversation gave her a lot to think about.

 

(flashback over)

 

"Did you hear me girl, do you bleed yet?" the crinkly old voice snapped Arya back into the present.

 

"Yes," Arya said confidently.

 

"And do ya know what the ceremony entails?"

 

"Yes," her voice less confident. "I heard Lem and Beric arguing about last night."

 

"And that has nothing to do with why you want a Speaking? You can just get that for free from several lads unless I miss my guess."

 

"No!" Arya said strongly, though she wondered who the woods witch would put on the stump for her. "I want to speak with father too, and Jory, and Mycha."

 

"And are you sure, those would be the dead to hear yer call. The dead nearest the doorway between our world and theirs are the ones with the greatest need. Vengeance is a powerful drive," the woods which warned.

 

"Well I wouldn't loose too much sleep if Mycha came to talk to me and took the Hound back with him," Arya stated flatly.

 

"I was talking about vengeance upon you, silly girl. You've sent more than a few men to the seven hells. Might be they'd have some unfinished business with you."

 

Arya's face paled. "I only killed when I had to, to get away or to defend the tower, like a soldier."

 

"That may be for now, but you have plans girl, dark plans. I see the shadow of them cloaking you. You need to let go of your hurts before you are hurt beyond healing. It may be that you could benefit from a Speaking, but there can be only one a year. Return to me next year and we shall see."

 

Arya was livid. "Why did you even ask me questions then?!" 

 

"To see what you would say, of course. Why does anyone ask anyone questions?" the old woman retorted.

 

Arya turned so the old woman would not see the tears in her eyes. She fled off into the trees around the clearing. More than one pair of eyes marked her passing.

 

###

Sandor's throat was absolutely dry by the time Sansa was done describing the ritual to him. What's more is that he didn't think he'd ever needed a drink more. "Are you thirsty?" he asked as much for something to say as for something to do. He grabbed the carafe in his free hand and sloshily took a huge swig.

 

"Sandor, no!" Sansa cried and before he could swallow she put a hand on both sides of his face sucking his bottom lip into her mouth along with some of the wine, though a good portion of it spilled down her neck and his. 

 

"Fuck Sansa," he swore, and as if he could not bear to waste a drop of wine, he licked and sucked all down her neck.

 

"Sandor," she moaned his name and rubbed the length of her soft body against him in a languid roll that made his eyes swivel back in his head. He cupped her ass with his free hand and guided her astride him. "Yes!" she gasped grinding her cunt on the bulge of his cock. He could feel how wet she was through his breeches. Maybe describing that ritual had not scared her as bad as it had him. That comforting thought was the last he had for a good long while after he figured out there was nothing at all under that thin white fabric. He couldn't really see anything properly, but his hands and mouth were everywhere licking and sucking. When he tried to get under the dress, Sansa wriggled away reminding him that she had to be a maiden for the rite. Sandor wanted to explain that there were ways around that, but he frankly lacked the capacity to form coherent thoughts let alone speech. So he focused his attention on her lovely teats. Bound as they were there was only one way to get at them. Neither of them paid any regard to the ripping sounds as Sandor fastened his mouth over the pink tip of one lovely globe and started to suck. 

 

Once Sandor found a ratio of licking, sucking and tonguing that she liked, Sansa's moans started to have a trilling little lilt to them. Sandor took his free hand off her ass so that she could move the way she wanted to and so that he could cup her other breast. Its nipple was already rock hard, so Sandor sucked it into his mouth and began running his thumb around the other one. This was obviously the right move as Sansa's voice moved up an octave. Her hip movements became more frantic. "Yes, little bird. That's it. Let me hear you sing," Sandor rasped. Sansa obeyed with a jerk and a whimpery little squeal she went rigid. Sandor went back to working her nipple with his thumb and tongue until she melted in his arms. Sansa stayed that way, still and panting for several long dick throbbing moments. Sandor was going to have to ask for a moment to himself or suffer the worst case of blues balls in recorded history.

 

When she stirred her vivid eyes fixed to his, "Why didn't you tell me it could be like this?" she demanded.

 

He barked a laugh, "I have never seen any woman enjoy anything half so much Little Bird, though have heard a lot of them try to fake it."

 

Her blue eyes narrowed, "That's what you meant so long ago when you told me you'd have a song from me. That's the song that you wanted all along?!" Her voice was rising in pitch and volume, but this time not in a good way.

 

Shame flooded Sandor and he found that he would not need a minute after all. He wanted nothing so much as to slink away from her scrutiny but bound as they were, there was nowhere to go. He considered getting mad and masking his guilt with anger, but that was the coward's way. Besides he didn't want Sansa to fear him. He wanted something else from her, but he dared not name it. Sandor took a deep breath and looked up into her unbelievably blue eyes. "Aye. I could blame it on the drink, which is the only reason I would ever have the balls to say it out loud, but I thought about it sober plenty of times."

 

"And the night we left King's Landing and you told me to sing for my life..." another of those startlingly ugly laughs crawled up her throat and slithered over her soft pink lips. "I thought you were going to kiss me." More dark laughter and she rested her forehead on his pec over his heart and then bobbed it up and down a couple of times as if banging her head against a wall chanting, "stupid, stupid."

 

She only got to two before Sandor realized what she was doing. He caught her face between his giant hands and forced her to look at him. "That night, I was out of my mind with fear and drink. You acted according to your training and I acted according to mine. We are not stupid; we just didn't have good training. And even though I acted like a rabid cur, we ended up here. Which is not so bad?" He asked hopefully. As he'd been speaking, her eyes softened and her brow unfurrowed. "Maybe you can teach this old dog some new tricks?" Sandor tried bending the good side of his mouth into a smile, but he felt woefully bad at it. His mind groped for anything that might bring the smile back to her face. "You could start with teaching me how to kiss. I'd never done that before, just now."

 

That twisted the corners of Sansa's mouth up, but also furrowed her brow. "You haven't? I mean, you haven't. That was not really a kiss. It was more of a desperate attempt to honor the ritual."

 

"It's the closest I've ever been," Sandor admitted. "You're pretty much the only person who can stomach being this close to my face outside of a battlefield. And I can promise you this ugly mug has saved my life a time or two in that arena as well. Women'll sometime be interested in my body, but they want no part of the face that goes with it."

 

Sansa cupped the burned side of his face her eyes swimming in unshed tears. "I know all about people being interested in only parts of you. I've never had a kiss that I didn't look back on and want to wretch, but I can at least show you how it's done." She exerted a little pressure on his jaw so that his face tilted. She tilted her own face to the side, leaned in, her eyes fixed to his until the very last moment. Her lips pressed to his for an eternity of softness. Then he felt a tentative swipe of her tongue against his lower lip. When he stopped feeling it he knew she had encountered the burned side of his mouth. Sansa did not recoil, but again brought her tongue back to the point that she'd started. It tickled a little and made him want to suck on that wet little tongue. First he'd have to catch it. He slanted his head more sharply and covered her mouth with his, sucking the middle point of her top lip, the part that came down in a plump curve against her teeth when she smiled. She squirmed on his lap and began sucking his bottom lip, running her tongue along the sensitive part where burned met unmarred flesh. He groaned and wrapped his free hand around her pulling her tight. Sansa then tentatively licked into his mouth. His tongue met hers with fervor. The kiss continued to deepen until the world narrowed down to the sliding wet friction of their mouths. This continued for several heart-pounding moments before Sansa pulled away gulping down air. Her lips were red and swollen from being sucked on and Sandor thought he'd never seen anything he liked better. "I'm thirsty," she panted. "Do you think we are practiced enough to try drinking?"

 

Sandor looked down, swamped by more shame. "I'm not sure how good I'm gonna be at this." Sandor had spent a lot of time and energy limiting the physical impact of his burns on his life, but no matter what he did he couldn't make his twisted lips meet. "I'm sure you've noticed in our time together on the road that I'm not winning any awards for neat eating and drinking."

 

"Actually I hadn't," Sansa said softly. Sandor felt the pressure of her fingers beneath his chin. He obeyed, getting lost in the blue orbs of her eyes. "I did notice that you always waited until dark to eat and then did so out of the light of the fire. I tried to respect your privacy. But Sandor I don't care how messy it is. You are the only way that can get liquids for 12 hours. Sometimes life is just a mess."

 

Sandor pressed his lips against hers a moment longer, trying to express something that was beyond him. _They may not be pretty, but she deserves some words,_ he thought. "There is something about you, Sansa that has always made me feel safe opening up to you."

 

She kissed him back and said, "I never told anyone, not even Arya."

 

Sandor reached with his free hand for wine carafe again. He took a swig which predictably began to dribble down the burnt side of his face when he did not swallow right away. Sansa grabbed the back of his head and sealed her lips to his, all but sucking the liquid out of his mouth. This process was repeated back and forth several times amid dribbles and giggles and stops to lick each other clean. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you guys think about the break? Would like a little Gendry Arya Ned Dayne triangle? Are you mad that you didn't get let in on the secret along with Sandor? Sorry. I decided that someone has to be surprised by the ritual and it just can't be Sandor. Love to see you comments.


	7. Petitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another stage in the ritual is begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to some life changes this fic is no longer flowing as easily as it has been. This chapter was half written so I finished it up, though I am not completely happy with the way it turned out. Anyway, here it is.

When thirst nor hunger were no longer issues, Sandor felt it was time to address some of his more pressing needs. In particular, his cock was pressing into his breeches again, and he wasn't sure he had another great shame to bring it down again. And though Sansa's round ass in his lap felt good enough to keep him up, it was not quite good enough to bring him off. "Sansa's darlin'," he was more than a little bit startled he even knew that word existed let alone have it come dropping from his lips, however, appropriate it was, "is there a screen in this cottage? I require privacy."

Sansa blushed. "The chamber pot is behind that shelf over there." Much time had passed, and the cottage was becoming dim. Sandor peered in the direction she pointed. “Do you see how it doesn't quite meet the other wall?"

"Aye," he answered and then looked down at their bond and her flaming face trying to figure the least awkward way through this. If only he just needed a piss or a shit. "Little Bird, how much do you know about the way a man's body works?" Her lovely eyes swept down between them to where she could not help but feel his rigid cock beneath her. Her face was nearly incandescent with the blood suffusing her cheeks.

"I can feel that you are hard, and I know that hardness is meant to go inside a woman," Sansa said in a soft husky voice that was also a bit tremulous too. Sandor's cock twitched at her words. She must have felt it because she arched her back again sighing. Sandor bit back a strangled sound of pleasure. Every single one of her words has been innocent but strung all together like that they almost made him almost lose his head.

He took a deep breath to try to steady himself, and she looked a little alarmed. She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. "I'm not trying anything Little Bird. It's just..." an idea occurred to him. "Earlier when you...found your release...well, I need to do something similar...for comfort's sake. And-"

This time she cut him off. "How can I help?"

Sandor balled his hands into fists and dug them into his thighs. This motion pulled Sansa’s bound hand behind her back presenting her left tit through where the dress had torn. It's hard pink nipple begged to be licked. Sandor slammed his eyes shut and ground his teeth. "I just need a moment to myself. It'll be quick, but I didn't want to just whip out my cock and start wanking, with you standing right there." He made a move to rise and set her on her feet, but she pushed down on him with surprising strength.

"But it feels so much better with someone else," her voice had dropped to a whisper even though they were alone as if she was confiding the juiciest secret she knew. _Better than what?_ his cock screamed and jumped up and down. His gutter of a mind presented him with a fine image of the Little Bird spread eagle on her feather bed in the Red Keep, her long lovely fingers working her clit and tit, singing her beautiful song. And that was it. He barely had time to grab Sansa by the waist and deposit her on the table, before delving into his breeches with a big meaty fist. Two jerks and the thought of that song including his name and thick white jizz was painting the floor beneath the table. Sandor roared his pleasure to the incredibly low ceiling and then plunked his head down on the table next Sansa's hip. His breathing was labored and ragged. _That amount of pleasure would have killed a less fit man,_ he thought. It took him a long while to come back to himself. And even then, he wasn't sure he wanted to. How do you look someone in the eye after you've behaved like an animal in front of them? Again. "Sandor," she said softly running her hand through his hair, pressing his head against her thigh. His name on her lips, her touch was a balm to his burning humiliation. "I see that your ear is red. There is no shame in what you did. I mean there isn't right? I basically did my version of that a couple of hours ago, and you looked happy."

He could hear the uncertainty in her voice, and he gave himself another mental kick. _I am so the wrong dog for this job,_ he thought reproachfully as he stowed his now limp cock inside his breeches hoping that the sad act would be blocked from Sansa's view by the table. Once everything was tucked away, he turned to look up at her. "There is never anything you need to be ashamed of between us, believe that."

With her bound hand, so it brought his bound hand up from where they had both been resting on her thigh, she tucked a stray lock of his hair behind his ear. "And I feel the same," she assured him.

He growled a humorless laugh. "It's not the same. I'm capable of hurting you. I almost did just now, but I managed to throw you up on the table and fuck my hand instead of dry humping you."

Sansa's face flushed again, and there was a hitch in her breath as squirmed a bit. "That doesn't sound so bad."

"I could have bruised you pretty bad little bird. You don't understand how strong I am. Hells, I don't always know my own strength when I'm that worked up." _Not that I've ever been that worked up,_ Sandor thought. _Just my bloody luck, the first girl, I couldn't stand to hurt, and she drives me out of control with lust every time she turns those enchanting eyes on me._

Sansa made a rather rude dismissive noise. "Bruises heal. I should know. You won't break me, Sandor. Cersei couldn’t, and she tried. Joff couldn't, and he tried too. I'm stronger than I look. Stronger than everybody thinks I am."

Sandor straightened and used his bound hand to push a fiery lock behind Sansa's ear. Her own bound hand skimmed a place where she'd worn a bruise for weeks courtesy of a backhand from Sir Meryn Trant. "I've stood by and seen too many of your bruises, and I never want to be the cause of one,” he whispered brokenly. 

"That's why I chose you."

###

Gendry heard Arya's raised voice and marked her conversation with the tiny white-haired woman. He could not make out exactly what was said, but he wanted to, so he started heading in that direction. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see he was not alone in this endeavor. _Fucking Ned Dayne with all his titles and manners and silky blond locks. Fuck that guy and the horse he rode in on._ Gendry increased his pace and Ned did too. Soon the two young men were in a dead run onto the small game trail that Arya had taken out of the clearing. 

The path was not wide enough for the two young men to walk abreast. As Gendry was older, broader and rowdier, he shouldered past Ned, tossing a glare behind his shoulder that plainly invited the fair young man to fuck right off. 

"Not a chance Waters," Ned said. He was slightly taller than his dark-haired companion, and he used what advantage his height gave him to loom as he dogged at Gendry's heels. 

"Just what the fuck is tha' supposed ta mean?" Gendry snarled. He held back from rounding on the other man, but just barely. The only people that called him by his bastard's surname were people trying to make him feel small. He would love to exorcize some of his frustration on this noble prick to show him that out here who your da is makes no matter.

"It means that I could see how upset she was with you making eyes at her sister and I mean to comfort her," Dayne answered.

This time Gendry did turn around leading with his fist. Ned was ready with an arm up to block, so he was free to put a right hook into Gendry abdomen. The smith grunted in pain, not having time to flex his abs to stave off part of the blow. No stranger to pain Gendry recovered quickly and sent another ham-fisted blow at Ned's face. This time the squire was not fast enough to block the hit though he did turn away from it to lessen the impact. Still there was a great crack as knuckles met forehead. Gendry shook his hand and glared at Ned.

"You need to learn to pick softer targets," Ned informed him.

"Every inch of ya ‘cept yer baby face is covered in mail. Ya don't think I can hear the jingle when you move? A smith knows that tune well. Better a bruised knuckle than a broken one."

"Will you two stupid heads shut up!" The whispered yell came from the bushes to Gendry's right, and he dropped to his knees to see what Arya was doing. It appeared that she’d crawled into a patch of brambles and inched her way about five feet in. As soon as Gendry was quiet, he understood why.

“…he was asking around the men about how much you are planning to ask for the Stark girl,” the voice belonged to Lem, and he sounded surly.

"What was he told?" the resonant tones of Beric's words were partly muffled by the wall of vegetation, but Gendry was pretty sure he heard right. 

Lem's answer was muffled, but Arya came swarming out of the briar patch, livid. 

“Arya, what’s wrong?” Gendry tried to ask her retreating back. His only consolation was that she brushed by Ned like he was invisible too.

###

A knock at the door woke Sansa. She blinked, and her lashes tangled in crisp chest hair, her cheek pressed to a slab of warm muscle. A delighted shiver raced through Sansa at waking up skin to skin with Sandor. She tilted her head up. The silver of his eyes was about the only thing she could see glittering in shadows of the cottage. They were darting a bit frantically. "Sandor, it's ok. We're in the witch's cottage.” That pronouncement did not slow his heart rate; she could hear it thundering in her ear. “Near the steep hill. By the ring of weir woods. There’s going to be ritual later…" That seemed to spark some understanding in him. He did not relax, but his eyes stopped roving about seeking a target.They'd decided a nap would be beneficial due to their impending late night and laid down without lighting any candles, hence the darkness they now found themselves in.

The knock came more insistently this time, accompanied by a voice, "Drop whatever yer doin' in there. It is time for the Maid to receive petitioners."

"What the bloody fuck does that mean?" Sandor growled running his hand down his face. She could see the now familiar wake up gesture by the torchlight spilling through the windows. Sansa had often thought it looked like Sandor was wiping dream residue from his face each morning.

She smiled at his just woken grumpiness. "We'll be with you in a moment," Sansa called toward the door. Then lowered her voice so that only Sandor could hear, "Can you behave yourself?"

He scowled at her, "When I came to, I thought we were still in King's Landing, but we'd been discovered abed. I was sure the torches I saw through the window were going to light the pyres at our feet, _so you'll forgive me my discontent while I try to compose myself._ " The last was said in an astounding impersonation of Westerland Aristocratic tones and Sansa was surprised to note he sounded a bit like Tyrion...with a really bad soar throat.

Sansa was giggling as she crawled over him. She gasped as she brushed a very prominent erection. Sandor grunted, but it didn't sound all together painful and the sound touched off that sweet ache in her nethers. "Do you need a moment?" she asked, more than half hoping he'd say yes. Sansa was quite disappointed not to have participated more fully in his earlier release. But she'd made herself as clear as she could about that, and now, she just had to leave him to make his own way, hopefully toward her and more intimacies.

"No." Sandor said emphatically lifting her out of the bed and standing at his full crouch. She could hear the jingle of his sword belt as they moved together toward the door. "Do not open that door until I tell you I'm ready."

"I won't," Sansa said putting her hand on the latch.

There was a rasp that shared a certain quality with Sandor's voice, and she heard a rumble to the side of the door where their bound told her he waited in the dark. "Go ahead."

Sansa opened the door and was immediately blocked from view of the outside by Sandor's hulking, sword-wielding form. "What the fuck do you want?" he barked at whoever was on the other side of the threshold.

"It is time for the Maiden to receive petitioners," the old woman's voice repeated only in a much more quarrelsome tone. "Come, light the candles," the last Sansa assumed was said over a tiny old shoulder as the voice was a tad muffled.

Suddenly the room was filled with people and light as women of all shapes and sizes, and ages flooded the one-room cottage lighting candles and the hearth. It was then that Sansa remembered the state of the ritual dress. She gasped and closed the wine sopped gaping tear down the front with her fist. The colorful braided belt was doubtless flung over one of the chairs or some other inappropriate place. All in all, Sansa had been acting quite scandalously for the past several hours, and though she didn't regret it, her early training tinged her happiness with shame. _No,_ Sansa thought, _I've had enough of that. My body is my own; I will do with it as I see fit._ But she was still sorry for the state of the dress for that did not belong to her.

As if the crone could read her thoughts, she said, "You have nothing to fear. Come out Maiden. Your petitioners have arrived."

Sansa peered out from behind Sandor's shoulder. It was a long hard climb up his back for her eyes wanted to rest on the ripple and play of his muscles. His breeches were riding so low that not all the stares were coming from Sansa. He was not indecent, but if she could see the curve of his behind from where she was, then the other women could all see way more of his treasure trail than she wanted to share. By the time her eyes appeared there was more than a little territorial glint to them. Women were arrayed all around the room, many holding sharp sticks with burnt tips. Seeing the implements jogged Sansa's mind about what was happening. It seemed very tame compared to other parts of the ritual when the crone was explaining the different parts of the ceremony. 

Sansa started to move around Sandor, but he used their bond to hold her back, “What’s with the sharp sticks?” he barked.

“It's ok. it's part of the ritual,” she soothed

He sighed like he had never heard something he wanted to hear less but quit impeding her movement.

Sansa continued around him and dropped a court worth curtsy to all the women. She graciously welcomed them to the cottage. They stood in varying states of shock at this, until one said, "Ya owe me a pie Betta, she's still wearing the dress."

"But you both owe me two," called a plump dark-haired woman. "It's torn nearly to shreds." Sansa did not like the way that woman, in particular, was eyeing Sandor, but she had a role to play, and it was not as if the dark-haired woman could do anything to him. Sansa was bound to him after all. Sansa waited a couple of beats to see if anyone else had any bets they'd like to call out about her appearance.

"Well then, let's get to it shall we?” she said. Sansa turned back to Sandor. "I need to sit on a chair in the middle of the room, so we are going to have to walk." He nodded scowling as he sheathed his sword. Sansa could feel his acute discomfort at being outnumbered in a room full weapons, even crude ones, when he could not stand upright with his own drawn. 

They moved together into the middle of the room. Sandor drew one of the chairs from the table and placed it in the middle of the room for Sansa to sit upon. Sandor was at her back. As soon as was seated the women advanced on her. One seized Sansa's leg. Another her unbound arm. The winner of two pies used the tear in her dress to bear Sansa shoulder. It seemed like all three pressed their sticks to her skin at once. They whispered as they did so. Sansa could hear bits and pieces of what was said, and she distinctly felt a tear fall on her foot. It was that coupled with the sorrowful looks all around that drove the laughter out of Sansa. The feeling of the sticks on her skin as the women scrawled notes to their dead, had been very ticklish up to that point.

As time went on more women crowed around, and some drew back. There was an audible gasp as the woman at Sansa's feet had to go higher and toward the back to complete her message. "Mercy, what left you these dearie?" an apple-cheeked middle-aged woman asked running her hand over the scars on the backs of Sansa's thigh.

"The flat of a sword, Goodwife," Sansa replied as evenly as she could muster.

The woman surprised Sansa by kissing her fingers and running them over Sansa's scars. "May they fade and never be revisited," she intoned and indeed Sansa felt a wash of something run up her leg. It felt a bit like having her own mother kiss a bumped head. The woman pulled away from Sansa's legs took hold of her bound arm instead. Her apple cheeks soon became wet with tears as she continued to scrawl a swirling line whispering of the how her children grew to a dead husband. It dawned on Sansa then that most of the “notes” the women were inscribing were only making pictures or random lines. They don’t know how to write, Sansa thought to herself.

"Goodwife," Sansa asked the apple-cheeked woman "Would you like me to write out what you are saying?"

"It's kind of you to offer, child," the woman answered, "But my Egar couldn't read." She went back to her scrawling and whispering and crying.

Sansa took note as Arya slunk into the cottage. She’d been crying, and her dirt smudged, scratched face was set in a mutinous scowl. The dark-haired Stark sister waited like a brooding storm waiting to dump hail on a budding crop. Sansa mourned for the hours of closeness when the sisters had set their ugliness aside to get to know each other once again. But now Arya was back, and she was angry about something. Something new by the feel of it. Sansa wearied so much of Arya's anger, though she supposed she deserved it and more. Well, Sansa would atone tonight. She would bear all these messages to the dead and see gods knew what as well face her father tonight.

One by one the women finished up. When there was enough room for her, Arya came forward with her stick. Heedless of her sister’s modesty she flung the dress up way past mid-thigh. When her sister started to write it did not tickle. Arya scratched her words into Sansa. Tears welled in Sansa's eyes and spilled down to plop into Arya's hair. "I'm sorry you have to write to him instead of speaking to him yourself, or at all," she told the back of her sister's head.

“I'm sorry you let this murderous dog drool all over you and suck hickies onto your neck," Arya sneered back. "I think I might even see some teeth marks on your back. Your tastes have changed drastically, but not what a slut you are when you throw your family over for a suitor."

Arya's words hit Sansa like a slap in the face. Her auburn head jerked up as a growl ripped from Sandor's throat. Arya dodged away from him as he tripped over the brunette that had been pressing up against him. "You ungrateful little wolf-bitch,” he snarled.

"Did he tell you, he's going to buy me from the Brotherhood?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to some real world issues I do not even feel like the same person that started this fic. I'm hoping to resync because i know what's supposed to happen, but writing it has become quite taxing. I probably won't pick it up again until I feel like I can do my idea justice. Not sure when that will be. I would still love to know what you think.


	9. Ritual Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ritual begins. The veil is parted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my original idea. Everything leading up to this was just window dressing. Admittedly self elongating window dressing. But this was at the core. Hope you enjoy it.

“I figured you’d rather travel with your sister, than with your captors,” Sandor snarled at Arya. Heat flooded his face from being caught out in his good deed and anger in having it misunderstood. “But maybe you don’t want to be torn from your admirers,” he deflected glaring out the open door, where Gendry and some Lordling cunt were standing with their thumbs up their asses.

  
For a moment Sansa just sat blinking. He could tell that she’d been stunned and hurt by what Arya had said. He’d like to take the ungrateful little wolf bitch over his knee as Ned Stark had obviously neglected to do. Sandor even made a halfhearted grab at Arya, but she scampered free. If asked he would say that he was hampered by his bond to Sansa, but he would never have caught the nimble little beast. Anyway, Sansa had suffered enough for all the little girls in Seven Kingdoms.

  
As these thoughts were running through his head, the other women in the cottage who had been doodling and whispering over Sansa’s body began to back away. Sandor couldn’t tell if they'd actually finished their prayers to the dead, or were leaving because they didn’t want to be in the middle of a family dispute. Once the last woman was done Sansa rose and straightened her garments as if she were primping for a grand ball. Just before she crossed the threshold, she turned to her dark Stark counterpart. “Arya, I know that you are hurting and scared and that you have been lied to and shunted from place to place and that your hurts and fears are informing your actions and your words. I will forgive them as I hope to be forgiven for similar words and deeds. Sandor was not trying to buy you, only ransom you.”

  
“What’s the difference?” Arya shot back.

  
Sansa shrugged. “If you don’t see one, then I can’t explain it to you, Arya. If you are determined to be angry, that is all you will ever be. Do as you will. I have other things to attend this evening.” Sandor’s eyes felt too tight behind his eyelids. Sansa had made some shitty, childish decisions. Sandor had thought her merely a well-dressed doll parroting her septa for a quite a while. Then he’d seen the killer in her on the battlements of the Red Keep on the day that she'd almost shoved Joff to his death. That had peaked his interests. But these words she was giving her sister held a wisdom and dignity that Sandor hadn’t encountered often. She had understood his intentions without having to be told. He scented no lie. This feeling she evoked in him went beyond a cock twitch. This made his chest ache.  
Sandor ducked out of the cottage ahead of Sansa clearing a path for her with his menacing gaze at the women and the two young men gathered around the entrance to the cottage. Arya called out. Sansa, who was still inside paused, turning to Arya. “Will you tell him I love him, and that I understand now about the pack surviving? When you see him,” the she wolf's voice whined out of the tear shielding darkness of the cottage.

  
“I will,” Sansa assured her little sister. Sandor could not see Sansa’s smile as she was facing away from him, but he could hear it, and he could feel it.

  
###

  
After the emotional upheaval of her conversation with Arya, Sansa completed the walk to the crown of High Heart in a daze. She felt both at once more firmly rooted in her self than she ever had been, and yet larger and more complex than she could have previously imagined. Almost as if she was every maiden on the hill. Sansa felt keenly aware of Arya and all her angst, worry, and pain her confusion and betrayal, her longing for pack. All these feelings like different wolves singing to the same moon that was Arya's self.

  
Arya was not the only maiden on the hill. There were two or three that were being sent down with children to watch over them on this wild night. One, in particular, was very mopey as she had an older sister who was allowed to stay. Experimentally Sansa tried to zero in the sister's mind. She was able to. Sister was casting longing glances at Ned Dayne, hoping against hope to catch his eye and various other parts of his body. She didn’t intend to go down the hill again as a maid. Sansa blushed at the graphic imagination that girl had and withdrew her awareness of it.

  
There were a few maids that were envious of Sansa being chosen tonight. Sansa did not want to dwell in negativity, and she pulled away from those as well.

  
Suddenly Sansa became aware of many more maidenly minds. At first all in the Riverlands mostly dreaming in humid slumber, then enough dreams to be every maiden in Westeros, though some experiences had a waking real feel about them, then beyond on into the daylit side of the world with landscapes foreign to Sansa's scope of knowledge. It was all a sweet broiling tide of hope and angst and everything in between felt so intensely it was overwhelming, and Sansa began to feel her own identity being eclipsed. Then beyond, the gentlest touch to her mind and something softer than a whisper echoed through her soul. “Those are mine. I just wanted to you to know before you left this sisterhood. There is a reason for innocence. It is an integral part of the world. Do not blame yourself for having it. Do no blame those who fostered it in you. Do not sorrow at its loss. It is a stage of life, no more. Not good or bad, just a state of being that one grows past. I wish you well. Do not forget the girl you were. She was necessary to the woman you will become.”

  
###

  
Sandor found himself in the clearing standing before the largest stump facing Sansa. Seemingly he had wandered here in a haze of pissy pride and irritation. The twisted old dwarf woman stood on the stump between them facing out at all the people gathered. Deepest night loomed glittering above them, and the clearing was lit by stars and a bonfire. Sandor wasn’t entirely comfortable with all that fire, but it was around twenty feet away and didn’t seem like to get any closer.

  
Sandor felt a tug on his wrist, wresting his attention from the fire “…do you agree to anchor this journey?” the old woman’s voice was harsh as if she was tired of repeating herself. Sandor looked down at the old woman, but not very far. Her position on the stump put her head’s distance from the ground somewhere between his and Sansa’s. When he met her gaze, it was that of a sullen ruby.

  
“I do.” Sandor barked rather than ask her to repeat herself another time. After all, at this point, he would do as Sansa bid. He refused to think far enough ahead to a time when that would not be so.

  
“Sansa as the embodiment of the Maiden you will walk a perilous path. A bond must be forged to bring you back safely.” The old woman tugged at the ribbon that stretched between them. “Do you agree to this bond and to undertake this journey?”

  
“I do.” Sansa’s reply rang like a bell through Sandor’s mind, and he could not stop himself from smiling. There was a cheer from their audience. Sandor spared a moment of his attention for the drunken scrum consisting of a couple dozen people strewn about the clearing haphazardly lolling over one another's increasingly naked forms. Some were leaning on stumps or reclining on the ground. Most were in pairs, but there were some groups. No one was alone, though.

  
“The time is at hand. Remember, seed will take root wherever it spills tonight. Upon the ground, it will nurture and make possible one more harvest. Within a womb it will take root and yield greatness.” the witch intoned in her public voice. To Sandor, she said more quietly, “The more noise she makes, the more attention she attracts from the other side. Screams or sighs, in this case, more is better. You may start with a kiss whenever you are ready.” With those words, she stepped back.

  
Sandor’s world narrowed down to Sansa. She peered up at him through coppery lashes, her gaze a bit dazed and he could see anxiety in every line of her. “It won’t be screams,” he growled as he covered her mouth with his and attempted to push the fear from her head through sheer force of tongue.

  
Sansa’s mouth opened for him wet and hot and trembling. Sandor savored this new activity. It might be his new favorite thing to do with his mouth. He applied the practice he'd picked up in the cottage and Sansa moaned when he unfurled his tongue against hers and began to stroke. His hands made similar motions up her sides and she melted into him. Sansa’s fingers curled so that she could scrape the nails of her bound hand against his chest. Goosebumps broke out everywhere on his skin.

  
Satisfied that he had kissed her immediate fear away, Sandor turned so that Sansa was between himself and the stump. He thrust his unbound hand into her hair so that his massive hand cradled her skull gently while he savagely plundered her mouth for every moan he could wring from it. His other arm snaked around her waist not even a bit ashamed that it led her hand to brush his rock hard erection. Once his hold on her was secure, he began kissing her down to the stump as she stroked him.

  
Once she was prone, Sandor pulled away to look down on her. She seemed to him the embodiment of the Maiden and he felt a fierce protective steak rear up in him. He would slay dragons for her. But first he wanted to hear her sing. He’d gotten to know what Sansa liked pretty well in the cottage, so Sandor commenced leaving a trail down the column of her throat, mostly licking and sucking, but when he came to her collar bone, he couldn’t help scraping one of his canines against it. For her part, Sansa made squeaky little trilling noises, and she gasped at the contact with his tooth. It was the best music he’d ever hoped to hear.

  
When he had reached the knot Sansa had made in the fabric of her torn ceremonial dress to keep her breasts covered Sandor became conscious again of their audience. He’d felt curious pity stares his whole life. Also, it wasn’t as if Sandor had never taken a whore against the wall of a back alley, uncaring who was watching. The gaze of this crowd had a different feel sort of expectant. He didn’t want to share Sansa with anyone, while at the same time he was grateful they existed for without them and their deranged ritual Sandor would never get to do what he was working himself up to.

  
Sansa must have sensed his hesitancy for her eyes, matching the heart of the hottest fire blazed up at him. “Don’t worry about them. Pretend we are back in the cottage,” she panted.

  
Sandor felt his face stretch in the unfamiliar feeling of a smile. “I’ll try,” he affirmed as he jerked the knot loose tearing the dress all the more. His mouth plundered everything that he laid bare, while his hands ran up her long lovely legs. He had a plan for meeting in the middle.

  
One of Sansa’s hands was clutching at his bicep with a surprisingly strong grip that clenched convulsively when he sucked her nipples. Her other hand was tangled in his hair tugging in a rhythm that matched with her hips arching against him. He would never have guessed that proper little Lady Sansa Stark would be writhing beneath him by the light of a bonfire, her love song echoing off the stars to the world beyond.

  
Sandor did not want her straying far nor staying long in that other place, so when his hands and mouth caught up to one another where her legs met, he got down to the business of really making her sing. He nuzzled the apex of her legs breathing deeply of her arousal before giving her a long, thorough lick. She tasted as fine as everything else about her. She gave a startled peep. “What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly looking down at him from propped elbows. She sprawled on the stump her knees spread to accommodate his large form now kneeling between them.

  
“Making you sing little bird,” he rasped hating the grating of his voice and how rough his hands must feel against the silk of her thighs. He wanted to be the Knight of Flowers for her. He wished he'd cared about any whore's pleasure enough to know what he was doing. The lurid glow of the fire did not give him near the light he wished, so he spread Sansa's legs further and sent questing fingers to her cunt, looking for her clit. Sandor had spent many hours in taverns unable to totally block out the bawdy conversations being bandied about. He ran his thumb up her slit gently probing, searching for what he'd once heard called the world's most priceless jewel that every woman secreted in her folds. Until this moment Sandor would have sworn he'd put the stupid romantic dreams of hearing a woman scream his name in passion away in the same hopeless pit where dwelt his dreams of being a knight. It didn’t take long to find the little nerve cluster, Sansa helpfully sang out when brushed it, the sound of her pleasure breathing life into all Sandor's exiled dreams. For his part, Sandor quickly set to giving the precious nub a good tongue lashing. He wanted to thrust with fingers and everything else he had deep withing her to help her along the path to ecstasy but restrained himself so as not to risk breaching her maidenhead. Remembering how sensitive her nipples were from the cottage, Sandor snaked his long arms under her thighs and up her torso to clasp her breasts. His incredible reach had saved his life on a number of occasions, but he’d never been so glad of it as when the combination of flicking his tongue on her clit and his thumbs on her nipples made Sansa throw back her head and shriek her pleasure at the moon. Her thighs clamped his head and squeezed hard enough to make him glad he only had one ear as she bucked against his face. All the while he kept sucking her clit.

  
When her body went limp, Sandor pushed himself up to loom over her glistening form again. One side of her glowed silver in the moonlight, the other side was haloed in orangey fire light. “Are you ready?” he said tugging the laces of his breeches loose to release his straining cock.

  
Sansa’s eyes went round as she fixed them to where he was lazily stroking his cock. _She’s gone mute with shock,_ he thought with dismay. He’d seen the look before on less experienced whores; he should have known a high born virgin would balk at the size of him. He spread her legs wide and lowered himself over her. His stiff cock skimmed along her stomach as he put his twisted lips to her ear. “Sansa, do you know what your gods require? They offered you a stick; I can use my fingers if that will satisfy them.” He’d have the Stranger’s own case of blue balls, but he’d do as she willed.

  
“I’d don’t know,” she panted. He couldn’t tell if her shortness of breath was still arousal or a return of fear. “Best do as prescribed. Will it…will you fit.”

  
Sandor couldn’t help his dark chuckle. It was basically the punch line to every dick joke he’d ever heard. “Aye, I’ll fit. I’ll use no more than I have to, to get the job done. Would you like it fast or slow?” he asked demonstrating her options against her stomach. Sansa made a little noise in the back of her throat and ground herself against the thigh that he had wedged between hers. She was still wet, which was a relief and a pleasure all its own.

  
“Slow,” she groaned low in her throat.

  
The vibrations of Sansa's near growl into his ear hole sent a jolt of pleasure down Sandor's spine so akin to eminent orgasm that it was only sheer force of will that kept him from blowing is his load on her belly. He sucked in a deep shuttering breath and took himself in hand again giving his dick two quick pumps for luck and lined himself up at Sansa’s entrance. She was so hot compared to the night air. Mastering his desire to just be in, he began his slow descent to paradise.

  
“As my veil is pierced so shall be the veil between us and the dead.” Sansa intoned as he drove slowly into her. Her voice sounded odd: herself, but overlaid with the echo of every female voice he’d ever heard. There was so much power in it he almost stopped his forward momentum to revel in the glory of it. But he was in pursuit of a deeper glory, and so he pressed steadily into her. Gods she was a wet bliss so tight he feared she’d strangle his release from him before he’d reached her maidenhead, much less breached the bloody thing. Sansa was panting quickly, and the movement of her diaphragm undulated the walls of her cunt as her breasts pushed diamond hard nipples into his pecs urgently. He moved his big hand up her neck to cup the base of her skull, tilting her head up meet his gaze. Sandor needed to see her to remember why he shouldn’t dissolve into the animal he always had been. She met his eyes unflinchingly, her mouth open on a cry of pleasure lips curling up at the corners. That centered him, and Sandor sank into Sansa, gliding through her maidenhead and plumbing the depths beyond.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think about the ritual? Feel free to speculate about what will happen next.


End file.
